


To Go Home

by olippe



Series: We're Going [5]
Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Romance, Best Friends, Drama, Drama & Romance, Everyone Is Gay, Folk Music, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Male Friendship, Music, Musicians, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Soulmates, artie is cheese, help artie, help paul, i'm too sad to make tags, we like them because they gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:20:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23682259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olippe/pseuds/olippe
Summary: Love is complex, life is hard, but this is where we belong.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Series: We're Going [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629406
Comments: 58
Kudos: 17





	1. Why the Ringing Stops

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again~! This [little fluff](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23578633/chapters/56571388) had helped me to resume this series ;3;  
> Enjoy the final instalment! (or so I suspect)  
> I expect this to be much less sad ;_;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since Art was around.

“What’s it called again?”

“Long Island Iced Tea.”

“But it does _not_ have any tea?”

“Correct.”

Paul frowns, staring at his tall glass hesitantly. “You sure this is good?” Lorne, crossing his legs like he owns the apartment, nods boldly. “And you're _sure_ you made this right?”

“For Christ’s sake, Paul, just try it!”

Paul did. He nods, impressed. Lorne claps his hands and points both his index fingers at Paul. “Ha! The jumping brows and the nod. Admit it, you should never doubt my words ever again.”

“I rarely doubt you, Lorne, but somehow you _always_ make me do,” Paul laughs, placing the glass back at the table. He squints at the TV, but doesn’t really pay attention to it. Soon, the programs will end and they’ll be left with fizzy statics. Paul hates those things.

Lorne clears his throat and bangs—by accident—his beer bottle on the table, then leans back on his chair. “Mister Paul Simon,” he calls. “How are you doing, Sir?”

Paul frowns and snorts a laughter. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Lorne shrugs. “Carrie Fisher, for one. Heard she’s gonna get hitched with Dan. What's his last name again? Aykroyd? That's right, right? Aykroyd. _Aykroyd._ You know, he's in my show but I never get it right.”

“That’s the name.” Paul sighs. He hunches to pick up the glass again, but stops and instead runs his finger around the rim. He understands why Carrie left, really. He’d been paddling on a leaking canoe, and with what happened last summer, it was like he plunged into the water. He knows he can’t expect Carrie to keep paddling when he’s not even there. But it still hurts. He didn’t take the dive because he wanted to. If he could, he would chop his arm off and stuff the leak, then paddled to the shore with one hand for Carrie.

Kathy, Carrie. When he found girls he genuinely loved, things always come up to meddle, it seems. Paul shakes his head. “Probably I’m just that unlucky with girls, I don’t know.”

Lorne tilts his head, observing Paul. He’d just done crazy load of work, this guy, then he’s hit with two losses in a row. How Paul still maintains that level of coolness is beyond him. If he said it’s just a façade, is he being presumptuous? Who knows? It’s not like Paul didn’t have a breakdown. It's not like Paul never looked for help. But that's just Paul's way, isn't it? He keeps things inside and keeps going. Well, if he's not going to _look_ for help, the help is gonna come to him.

Lorne finishes his drink.

“Paul, Carrie is getting married,” he said. Paul lifts an eyebrow, but letting him continue. Lorne looks down and clears his throat softly. “So… maybe it’s a good time to really be together with Art, you know? I mean, yeah, ease in to it, but, you know.” He watches Paul carefully, searching. "I mean, don't you want it? Now neither of you has anyone to hold you back, right? You can be together. Like you were before. You can work it out again. You deserve it, Paul. You both do. You both deserve to be happy, and wouldn't be nice if you're happy together?"

Paul glances at Lorne. He feels empty, like a drained bath tub. Lorne tries to keep his glance as well, but he fidgets anxiously from time to time. Paul holds his gaze for a little longer, partially to disturb him, before he lets out a long exhale. “Well, I suppose I’m not only unlucky with girls.”

“Hey, come on,” he coaxed. Lorne pokes Paul. “You know that’s not true. That dude loves you, man. He’s just going through a tough time. But surely you’ve contacted him?”

Paul had. He had called and called and called, and sent letters and postcards and tried to find him in the weirdest places in the world—bongo bars, fried pickles and orange vendors, antique monkey hands seller, gutters… It’s not like he’s completely _gone._ He’s just… obscure. People had seen him sometimes. And sometimes, he’d return Paul’s calls with a single-liner messages. “I’m fine,” _click._ “Stayed at hotel yesterday,” _click._ “Walked to Connecticut, just got home, tired, sorry, later,” _click._ Very elegant. Very Art.

“He’s alive, that’s all I can tell you,” Paul said. He takes a large gulp from the glass, then returns it half-emptied. Lorne's insane and everything, but he really does know how to pick good drink. “His mother said he’s doing insanely long walks nowadays. I mean, not long like walking at the park from 4 until sunset, but like from New York to Michigan long.”

Lorne nods with pouting lips. “Impressive,” he said. “Worrying, but impressive. But, hey, he’s coping with a hobby, so that’s good, right?”

“Yeah…” Paul murmurs half-heartedly. He doesn’t want to talk about Artie. Not with Lorne, at least, because he knows that Art wouldn’t like it. But if not with Lorne, who?

Lorne puts his hand on Paul’s knee. “Listen, Paul? I really do think you should go get him. If you don’t know where he is, I can call up some people and they’ll locate him for you. Just… find him, okay?”

Paul frowns. “Why are you so invested?”

“No, I’m not! Okay, maybe I am. Hey, I’m a romantic, okay? I want everyone to be happy! Okay, bullshit. I just thought you two are funny. But I _do_ want you to be happy. He makes you happy, doesn’t he? Go get.”

Paul shakes his head. “Don’t think he’s gonna entertain the idea of that. Not after what happened to Laurie.”

Then he stops himself. It’s still hurtful, what happened. In the funeral, Laurie’s father talked about her mother, how she committed suicide at Laurie’s age, too. Everyone simply thought of how her death had been a shadow of this memory. But Paul knows. And, worse of all, Artie knows. Sure, they didn’t pull the trigger, but they handed her the loaded gun, didn't they?

That was the last time he really saw Artie—in that funeral. He couldn’t bring himself to talk with him, though. Not after he’s gone off that morning, without a word—that, to Paul, was a clear enough sign that Artie doesn’t want any of this; at least not for a while, if not forever. That was a hurtful day for everyone, doubly for Paul, but ultimately, probably, for Art.

Lorne moves to Paul’s side, squeezing him on the shoulder. “Hey, buddy? Let’s not talk about Laurie tonight, okay? You’re already sad about two things, let’s not add one more. That’s the new rule: only two sad things at a time. So, there’s being sad about Carrie, and being sad about Artie...”

Paul kicks on Lorne’s shin. “You still don’t get to call him Artie. I worked hard for that. You don’t deserve it.” Lorne groans by his side and Paul feels a little satisfaction. “Also, he won’t like it anyway. You know, Art doesn’t like you all that much. I mean, not you _you,_ but that you’re my friend and you know our story.”

Lorne’s eyebrow was lifted. “Is he jealous, scared I’m gonna spread the news, or just plain psychopathically possessive?”

“Dude, it’s Artie. All three.” Paul grins and shakes his head. He likes talking about Artie. It’s nice to observe and talk about how weird he actually is, because all those antics are not very apparent when they’re together. From the outside, it’s easy to look back and think, _Oh yeah, that_ is _actually weird._ Paul finishes his drink and returns the glass with a satisfied sigh. “Some of them are uncalled for, I know. I’ve talked him out of it, but it felt a little like convincing children that Santa _is_ their parents.”

“No, I think all of them are called for.” Lorne laughs.

Paul almost replies, but then retreats. He looks at Lorne, taking in the queer silence around them. This is an atypical silence. They’d never been in this kind of silence.

Then Lorne moves in and kisses Paul.

Paul closes his eyes out of convention. He waits patiently until the moment’s over; it’s odd how still the world and emotions feel. When Lorne withdraws—shocked at himself—Paul breathes out, then shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s fine. That wasn’t meant to be anything,” said Lorne. He sounds very casual. As if it's an everyday thing. Or he's just overcompensating. Is it really fine? If it's not fine, it should be fine. He can't be doing this with Lorne. Can he?

Paul frowns at the coffee table, observing the water ring that’s slowly spreading. No, he can't be doing this with Lorne. It felt weird, kissing with Lorne. It felt… wrong. He’s suddenly completely aware that Lorne is Lorne and Lorne is a guy. He never felt like that with Art. So he concluded that for Lorne: “I can only do that with Artie.”

He nods. “I get that. That’s great. Hey, never mind me. That was just, what, impulse? I didn’t mean to do it, I didn’t mean to do anything to follow it, nothing. And I’m being serious. This is not some bullshit I’m saying because things get weird.”

“Things _did_ get weird,” Paul grunts. He folds his arms in front of his chest. “ _You_ made it weird. I’m a little tipsy right now, but I kinda wanna kick you in the head.”

“Oh, come on, I don’t deserve that! It’s not _that_ bad. Look, it's not that big a deal. I kiss people all the time. I mean, no, but I can, if that makes you feel any better. Okay, it's settled. I'll get out and kiss everyone at sight, starting with our doorman.” Paul rolls his eyes. Lorne grins and puts some distance between him and Paul. “Come on. I said I'm sorry. And I'm actually serious, that didn't mean anything. Come on, what can I do to make it better? Oh, I know. I’ll buy your grocery for a week for you, how’s that? Oh, I’ll give you my scotch. The most expensive one. Or any bottle of your choice. Just… no kicking the money-maker.”

“I’ll take two bottles and a free kick anywhere but not in the head.”

“One bottle, one kick not in the head _and_ not in the nuts.”

“Great.” He kicks Lorne on the shin again, repeating the attack, doubling the pain. He leans back as Lorne grunts and nurses his violated leg, thinking. This one’s not like when Art kissed him; there’s still plenty way back. Had it been done in his youth, would he have given this a chance? No, he’d move to Peru and live in hiding. Paul likes girls. Paul likes girls and Artie. He only issued that one exception. Artie can be born as a piece of cheese for all he cares, and he’d still love him. “Assface, do you like me?”

Lorne quits his whimpering, looking at dead-eyed Paul. He clears his throat. “Well, Paul, you’re my friend and I think you’re hella cute. You know, like tiny white mouse or munchkin rabbit.” He smiles. “But that’s it. Hey, listen, I’m sorry that I made this weird. Really. But, really, I don’t think of you that way, and you know I’m rooting for you and him. Also, I’m getting married for fuck’s sake!”

“Yeah, fine,” Paul nods. “Just… gonna be a bit weird now, talking about him with you. I mean, it’s weird enough as it is.”

“I know,” he agrees. Lorne rested on the far end of the sofa, sighing, frowning, thinking. He finally says, “Listen, pal, you’re a real good friend. You care _so much._ It can be taken the wrong way if people think they have a chance with you. So you know who’s never gonna jump the gun with you?”

Paul lifts his face, questioning wordlessly.

“Your brother,” he said. “Talk to him. If you’re not comfortable with me anymore, I mean. Or if I’m not enough. I mean, it’s a big thing you’re dealing with. One advice might not be enough.”

Paul cringes. “I _can’t_ talk to my brother about this! He knows Artie! And my Dad.”

Lorne shrugs. “I know. But you two are close. And Eddie’s a nice kid, and he loves you. I don’t think he’s gonna tell on you. Doesn’t seem like the type.”

“No, he’s not,” Paul agrees. His brows are knitted in the middle of his forehead, brain crunching. It can be considered, at least. “I might wanna go over this one with Art.”

Lorne nods. “Whatever to get you to talk with him, my friend.” He pauses. “Wait, we’re still friends, right? I’m just gonna call it, we’re still friends.”

“Damn, I’d been looking for a way to get out of this,” Paul groans, then he laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re still friends.” He sighs slowly, squeezing his eyes. The room spins around him—not from the Long Island iced tea, but because everything is topsy-turvy. Art is gone. Carrie is gone. Laurie is gone. Lorne is insane. Paul groans. “Hey, no hard feelings and all, but can you go home? I think I need some rest now.”

Lorne nods and quickly stands up. He winks at Paul. “I’ll come back tomorrow with the bottle of your choice.”

Paul frowns. “But I haven’t picked.”

“Right. Then, you’re welcomed to sampling party at my place. Hey, no worries, Susan will be there.”

“Great, great. Now, vanish.”

Lorne leaps towards Paul’s laundry room, finding a shortcut. Paul doesn’t really have energy to stop him and get him to use the front door, so he just lies there, powerless.

He can call Art again. Although his replies had been very short, he _does_ reply. Which means, he _does_ check on his answering service. He wants to converse with Art, though. Not listen to his flitting sentences offered out of politeness, but really talk to him. But Paul never demanded it. He never will.

Still, he stands up to his telephone, finds the numbers and waits. The weird iced tea without tea seems to be stronger than it appears. It’s fine. He’s gonna be fine. This waiting for the phone to get into voicemail takes _so_ long.

The dialling tune cracks. Paul opens his mouth to speak.

“Hello.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i defiled the life of sir lorne michaels and i am very sorry ;3;  
> okay i just read a times article and lorne sounds like art okay? okay? OKAY i'll shut up now


	2. Why the Night Gleams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art answers the call.

“Hello?”

That’s Art. Art is speaking. Not a wheezy recording of his voice, but his actual voice. Paul should say something—he knows he should. Hey, they’d been through this years ago, when Paul was still married to Peggy and Harper was still a heavy baby on his lap. What did he say then?

“Artie, do you think we’re still best friends?”

A chuckling. Art’s laughing on the phone. He sounds like a little bird. Paul hated those birds, disturbing him in the morning. But this is Art. No one can hate anything that comes out of his mouth.

Paul sighs and laughs along. “Sorry. Sorry, I was just surprised. You haven’t picked up my calls in _months_! How are you? Where have you been? When did this whole weird long walks start? What are you thinking? Why are you weird?”

“Stop it Paul, you’re making me blush.” He tittered. God, he’s an angel. “Okay, I’m fine. I haven’t been anywhere this week, recuperating. As for when, I first did it that morning. I wasn’t really _thinking_ about anything, just that walking might clear my head off, you know? And last, you _know_ I’m weird, why is it surprising?”

Paul doesn’t reply. He can’t. He can’t make up words now. That’s Artie talking. He grins in his seat like an idiot.

Art waits for a reply. Hearing none, he continues. “And Paul? I’m sorry.”

Paul stops grinning. He twirls the phone cable in his finger, fidgety. He knows what the apology’s for, just as he knows which morning Art was referring to. He wipes his sweaty hand on his jeans. “It’s fine. You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he says. “I just want to.”

“Okay. I’m glad you’re okay.” Paul clears his throat, suddenly nervous. Never in his life had he ever not know what to say to Art. Well, maybe once or twice—like when Laurie died, or when they first kissed. This isn’t anything big. Just _talk._ “So, are you going anywhere else after this? How about Vermont, eh?”

“Vermont? No, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Why not Canada? Try that place with cool name. Saskatchewan. Or, uh, Iqaluit.”

“You can’t just choose a destination because the name sounds funny. That’s not how it works.”

“Okay, how does it work?”

Silence. Then Art laughs. “I don’t know. There isn’t any rule. I just go where I want to go.”

Paul chuckles. “Of course you do.”

“That being said,” he interrupts. Paul quickly shuts up. Art, on the other end, seems to be waiting until all the sound dies down before finishing with, “can I go there?”

***

Paul says the best things to depressed people, that’s what Art thinks. Whenever he called up the answering service to get Paul’s messages, he’d find Paul saying things like: “Hey, Artie, it’s me again. I ate corn salad that tasted like shit, so you can say that I just ate shit. If you haven’t had lunch, I suggest you to stay away from Arbor Room in 8th Avenue and 23rd Street. That place in Hudson Street has egg benedict that you like. Go there instead,” or “Art, Paul. I think you haven’t slept, so I slept your portion for you. This is my way of telling you that I just had 16 hours nap,” or “PICK ME SOMETHING TO DRINK! Beer or tea or water? You know what? I’ll get the beer. You get the tea and water. This is Paul.” These little messages put a smile on his face, every time. It’s much better than his mother’s sappy, straightforward, “Art, _you should eat_ ,” “Art, please get some sleep,” “Art, I know you’re not feeling good, but…” Honestly, it makes him feel worse. But Paul—Paul makes him laugh, even in time like this.

He knows he needs to see Paul, in the end. He’d been avoiding his calls for months—even when he’s home, he’d wait until the ringing stop and he’d listen to Paul leaving him one of his funny messages. Sometimes Paul managed to catch him when he’s making a replying call, but he never pushed too much. He let Art say one or two sentences, then turned it off so Art didn’t have to feel bad about ending the call.

Very considerate when needed, Paul.

He feels a little guilty about feeling happy when he thinks about Paul—it’s like betraying Laurie, even in her death. Art knows he has to pull himself out of this, but it’s difficult. Laurie haunts him like a fever dream. When he’s awake, his eyes would feel heat prickling from the back of his eyeballs and tears would soon puddle. When he’s asleep, she’s there, lying on the bed, waiting for him, bathed in ethereal light that turned her body into mystery. Art can’t hold her in either realm.

It feels better when he walks. He thinks about Laurie too when he prances, but things are ahead of him to think of. He thought about his time in university, staring at the grass that grew through the crack on the sidewalk. He wants to try that again, paying attention to such trivial things, that is. If he’s going to be an insane recluse, he ought to be a philosophical kind of that.

Art tries to dry his hair with a towel—he had decided to take shower before going to Paul’s. It’s never really wet, but hair-drying never gives him a thoroughly dry hair either. He just wipes the visible droplets, then lets go of the towel. It feels like a big deal, meeting Paul tonight. Should he wear anything fancy? It’s too late in the evening for anything fancy, they might just talk then fall asleep on the couch. What kind of clothes does he have for that?

Art puts on a clean white shirt and a dark red sweater—an Art Garfunkel staple. He stops for a while and wonders whether he should bring in some clothes to see Paul. He never left anything in that apartment, because of the whole Harper-Shelley-Carrie-Lorne situation. But since Lorne knows, Harper’s a kid, and both Shelley and Carrie are no longer around, perhaps it’s a good time to do so. He folds an extra shirt and a pair of underwear, shoving it all into his bag.

Paul’s apartment is not very far—in comparison to Connecticut, it’s not very far, no. Art walks breezily through the street, crossing the park. The winter is ending now, but the temperature is still low and the wind is still biting. Art doesn’t mind. He’s not very easily disturbed by the cold. Paul, on the other hand, needs to live inside a pit of fire to survive.

A piece of newspaper floats past him. Art shuts his eyes and swats the flying menace away. His coat doesn’t give him much comfort when it’s this deep into the evening, but he can manage. He can think of cold things while he walks. Shrimp cocktails, popsicles, Laurie under a pile of snow…

God.

Paul’s apartment soon comes to view, the beige bricks stands quietly in the still of the night. As a former architecture student and a forever stalker, Art knows that this building was first built 70 years ago. He looks up to find the peak of it, how it overlooks the silence of Central Park.

_How terribly strange to be 70._

The building doesn’t seem to think so. Art crosses the street and pushes the door, walking steadily to reach the lift. He sends himself to the upper floor, wanders briefly through the beautiful corridor, stops to scrutinise the apartment door. He smiles a little bit to himself, for some reason. He’s happy, perhaps. Or proud, because this is the first time that he conducted a walk for social purpose since Laurie. But either way, he feels like the snow outside had melted into pink blossoms—soft, delicate, joyful. He runs his fingers on the door pane, as if it’s an enchanted relic from the past.

He shrieks when the door suddenly swings open. Paul, behind the door, jumps at the sound and at the sight. For a few seconds, they just stand there in stunned silence, then burst out laughing. Paul grabs Art’s arm and drags him inside, closing the door with an unstoppable giggling. “Why didn’t you knock, idiot?”

Art’s still grinning. “I was about to! How did you know I was there?”

“I didn’t,” he shrugs. “You know, it’s like in the movies where the heroes just _sense_ that something’s wrong. Like there’s an evil spirit or a murderer or something.”

Art laughs. “Right. So now I’m an evil spirit. Careful there, I might possess you.”

Paul tilts his head, smiling widely. “Might?”

But Paul quickly turns his head down and clears his throat, slightly panicking. “Er, well, you want something to drink? I just had a ton, I might have to settle with water, but you’re free to raid my pantry.”

Art nods. “I can do with a drink.”

Paul slips into the kitchen and returns with a glass of scotch. Art takes a swig. “That’s a good stuff.”

“I know. I just stole it from Lorne, since you said you’re coming.”

Art stares at Paul from the rim of his glass. “He’d been hanging out here a lot?” Paul slumps his shoulders and nods guiltily. Art frowns and smiles. “Okay, Paul, you don’t have to feel bad that you hang out with him. You may have friends.”

Paul laughs mockingly. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“I like that. That’s my official name now.”

“Yeah, and I will curtsy when I see you,” Paul chuckles, shaking his head. “God, I miss you.” He looks at Art carefully, smile fading from his face. “That’s… Is that alright to say?”

Art falls silent, contemplating at his choice of words. He nods slowly. “That’s alright.”

Paul smiles, relieved. He takes the glass from Art and offers a refill, though declined. “Your hands are cold, damn. Want something warm? Tea? Chocolate? I think I can make one of those. Or, I have a powder I can use, I guess.”

Art shakes his head. “Just sit down with me. I think I wanna turn in soon, if that’s alright with you.”

Sitting down with Artie is a little problematic now. Paul stalls by taking Art’s coat and hangs it in the rack by the door while Art finds his place in the couch. Paul sits in a careful distance, letting a cushion to take care of the awkwardness between the two.

Art smiles warmly at Paul, who glances at him nervously. They both lean their hands on that one cushion, their fingers fluttering on it sheepishly, looking for a distraction to keep themselves from touching. Art breaks the silence, knowing that he’s the one who brought it with him, “Sorry I haven’t been at home. It’s just a little difficult nowadays.”

Paul nods. “That’s fine. You don’t have to give me explanation or anything. Just glad you’re here.” The tip of his index finger finds Art’s. He lets it stay there. “Can I ask where you stayed?”

“Just hotels. Have tried a lot of places now. Give me a name and I’ll tell you what the room looks like.” Art crooks his finger and hooks it around Paul’s. It’s like a game, or a secret handshake. It’s nice. They’re inching to get closer. “Thanks for keep on reaching me.”

Paul smiles. He decided that it’s time to move a little bolder. So, he takes Art’s hand in his. “Always.”

Art observes him with a lingering beam. He hasn’t felt that hand in months now, and it warms his heart. Like the frozen lake outside, the ice here, too, is melting. “There’s something else you want to say.”

“There are several things,” Paul agrees. “But none of them seem like a topic to bring up in our first meeting in a while.”

“Serious stuff?”

“Very serious stuff.”

Art taps his finger on his temple, thinking. “I’m sleepy,” he says, “but curious. How about you tell me what’s on your mind, and we’ll fight about it tomorrow?”

“Oh.” Paul exhales softly. “But is this gonna be a distraction, or will this pile on things that make you wanna pull your hair?”

“I won’t pull my hair.”

“Okay…” Paul straightens his back and looks at Art with serious face. Carefully, he starts. “Artie, I was actually thinking about telling Eddie about us.”

Art blinks in disbelief. “You _what_?”

“Not set on it. Just a thought. Not gonna do it if it’s too much for you. I mean, it’s too much for me. Just a thought.” He hesitates. “Maybe it’s not a good idea.”

“Okay…” Art scratches his head, finding composure to continue. He laughs wryly. “Yeah, I thought you called me to goad me into doing my laundry. Wow, I’m glad I took _that_ call. But why thought about it in the first place?”

Paul shrugs. “Lorne came up with the idea. I liked it. Kinda sick of getting kissed by my best friends out of nowhere, anyway. Eddie would _never_ do that. He’d stab his own eyes rather than doing that.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Yeah, I know. Maybe I should start befriending girls.”

“Wait.” Art frowns, his mouth agape in shock. “Lorne kissed you? Really?”

“Ooh, this is an Art Garfunkel’s I-told-you-so moment.”

Art lets out a short laugh and shakes his head. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. Uh, judging from your current reaction, it wasn’t a welcomed advance? And, also, you’re still okay with him? Are you ditching him as friends and that’s why you’re taking Eddie back in? You’re finally getting rid of Lorne?”

Paul laughs hysterically, pointing rudely at Art, who grins and tries to kick Paul. Paul tries to stop his laughing by pressing his face to the pillow until he’s breathless. His face re-emerges vermilion. “Okay, how long have you been trying to get Lorne out of the picture? Anyway, no, yeah, we’re still friends. Hey, you and I are still friends. Besides, Lorne is _not_ in love with me, so you’re still worse. If I can bounce back from that, I can bounce back from this. So, anyway, that happened. Are you mad? Don’t be mad, it’s not my fault. Can I bribe you with anything?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Sure, I wanna stab Lorne in the head, but if you say it’s nothing, it’s nothing. Or, I don’t know. I have mixed feelings about this. I mean, it’s kinda funny, but also upsetting, but…” Art shrugs. “I don’t know. I think I’m gonna need time to process this.”

Paul nods. “Actually, me too. I mean, it happened less than an hour ago, so.”

“A guy kissed you, and you immediately thought about calling me. Okay, definitely feeling better about this. About Lorne, not so much.”

Paul giggles. He takes back Art’s hand and grips it tight. “Hey, I can’t do it with anyone but you. I’ve told you that, haven’t I? So, I don’t know, Lorne can dance naked in front of me all he wants, and I won’t be tempted. Actually, I would _really_ prefer if he doesn’t.”

Art laughs back. “Are you saying you’d be tempted if _I_ dance naked?”

“I still would prefer if you _don’t,_ but I won’t blowtorch my eyes.”

“Hey, I’m a _good_ dancer.”

“Arthur, you roundhouse-kicked your prom date in high school, and it was during a slow dance.”

Art presses his palm over his mouth to stop himself from laughing again. He nods with teary eyes in attempt to stay quiet. “Yeah, that’s true. Exaggerated, but kinda true. I _tripped_ her, I didn’t kick her face. Also, I didn’t know you know that. You deliberately positioned yourself on the other end of the dance floor because you were avoiding me.”

“I know! God, what would I give to be dancing with you two so I could laugh directly at your face. You know, my date thought I was insane for throwing that laughing fit.”

Art knits his eyebrows, trying to recall. “Hey, who was your prom date?”

“Alison Keitsch.”

“Ugh.”

“Shut up.”

They fall silent and take it in: the two of them, laughing, making jokes, holding hands so innocently; it’s like the old times again, where sadness was around but shadow of the death was far. Art leans his head on the back rest. “There’s something else you wanna say.”

“Yeah,” he mutters.

“I love you.”

Paul smiles. “Is that a guess, or…?”

Art laughs. “It can be anything you want.” He squeezes Paul’s hand fondly. “Let’s go to bed.”

So they stand up. Art follows Paul around the room to turn off all the lamps, not wanting to let go of the hand. Soon, in complete darkness, they both enter the bedroom and change into sleeping attire. Neither of them dares to make a glance, as if it’s their first time together. When they slip under the blanket and quickly pull each other into an embrace, they ponder on how silly it is to feel so shy that they have to hide their faces that way. But neither of them withdraws.

Paul waits until the sound of Art’s breathing slows down into a sleepy pace, then slides downwards to meet his face. He drifts closer until their lips touch. Then he remains still, so all night, Art is all he breathes, and all night, they never stop the kiss.


	3. Why Breakfast is Important

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning time in Paul's apartment with Artie.

> _I love your yellow eyelashes._
> 
> _I love your whistling breath after a cold night. I love your dreamy whimper before you wake up. I love your ears that move subtly when they feel an itch. I love your eyes that’s squeezed when you laugh. I love the soft voices that escape your lips. I love your confused arms, your awkward feet, your long neck, your thoughtful forehead. I love your beating heart, your rushing blood, the air in your lungs. I love how your hair looks like a flower in bloom; I love the way you carry it like how Atlas shouldered the world. I love your fingers, your little toes, every single bone in your body. I love it when you're pretending to read. I love it when you cry and talk in your sleep. I love it when you sing, I love it when you scream. Every day, I want to look at you and remember why I love that I wake up that morning._

* * *

Art opens his eyes to walls of brown eyes staring back at him. In front of him, Paul blinks slowly, then, “I love you.”

Art smiles. “What?”

“I love you.” He slides his hand to reach Art’s face, brushes his thumb across the temple, very tenderly. Art leans in to the contact, lazily like a sleepy cat. He's so precious, Paul could cry. “I didn’t get to say that last night. That’s what I wanted to say. I love you.”

Art frowns, his smile turns into a confused grin. “I know that.”

“I don’t know if I can say that. I suppose technically I should never have said that, considering we're... you know, guys and all. I’m sorry I said that. I'm sorry I said it again.” Paul pauses to take in the sight before his eyes. Art’s eyes are bluer than the sky and his golden lashes look like a stream of sunlight. He’s the most beautiful thing in the world and there’s not enough words to explain that. Paul had come up with 9 albums trying to do that, and it still feels like a failure. How do you explain the softness in that smile? How do you explain the tenderness of that gaze? Art lives beyond words, and that's all Paul has to offer to the world. Probably no one deserves this. Probably no one deserves this level of blessing. He blinks back tears, continuing in whisper, “I tried not to. I don’t know if you’re ready for that, so I tried not to. But I love you, Artie. I love you.”

Art shakes his head a little. “It’s okay. I want you to say that.”

“Good, good…” Paul mumbles. He kisses Art on the tip of the nose, then plants another one on his lips. “Because apparently I can’t stop saying it.”

Art smiles and wraps Paul in a tight hug. “Either way, I’ll still know it.” He presses his lips on Paul’s forehead, inhales the scent of his hair. It's so familiar, it breaks his heart. Even through it all, he still misses Paul. The shards of his broken heart are still looking for Paul; they’re crawling, rattling, raving, like an enraged spirit in search for him. He’s here now, and every single piece is screaming, bleeding with joy like sacrificial lamb. Art kisses him again. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Hmm…” Paul’s mumbling vibrates on his chest. “I did. I just woke up a little early.”

“Thinking of something?”

Paul nods.

“What about?”

“Oh, nothing.” He shrugs, then grins. “Just about how much I love you.”

Art laughs. “Paul, that’s cheesy.”

“Whatever, it’s true,” he giggles. Paul tilts his head up and smiles, then closes his eyes to receive the kiss he knows is coming. True enough, Art's lips come rushing at him like a cloudburst, wet and sudden and violent. Paul lets himself get crushed in the embrace, pressing closer when Art couldn’t pull any further. The kiss feels weighty, and sticky, and intense, and impatient; soon their breaths begin to get too heavy to float out of their lungs with ease. Paul's fingers roam through the maze of Art’s hair, willingly losing themselves in the tangle. Paul pushes his knee to part Art’s legs, inciting excited moans from him. Suddenly, Paul pulls away from the kiss and smirks. “Can I tease you about this?” He moves his leg against Art’s groin, rubbing on it slowly.

Art grins and blushes. “Shut up. It’s been a while.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. Want me to do something about it?”

“God, you’re killing me.” He throws his head back in laughter. The sound of that makes Paul smile. He kisses Art on the neck, sweetly, waiting for him to regain his composure. Finally, Art gives out a long exhale, then returns to nuzzle on the top of Paul’s head, embracing him tightly. “There's a _lot_ of somethings I want you to do about it,” he chuckles. Then he tilts his head and presses his cheek on the pile of soft brown hair. “But I’m not sure I’m ready for it. Give me a little time.”

“Well, that’s fair.” Paul nods. He grins and looks at Art with a cheeky glint in his eyes. “How about just _one_ something?”

Art lifts an eyebrow and laughs. He pushes his lips against Paul, then they giggle like a couple of young men, fresh to the discovery of their desire for one another, pulling their pants under the blanket and trying to not make too much sound.

***

Paul and Art have different concepts for winter breakfast. Art, posh and proper, with all his aesthetics, is sure that cold temperature calls for something actually cooked with fire—grilled tomatoes, poached eggs and toasted buttered brioches, rice pudding, warm cinnamon rolls. Paul, on the other hand, finds cold as an excuse to eat a block of cheese. Unable to compromise, Art uses Paul’s phone to call his mother (also to relief her from worries of her missing son) for a recipe, and they wind up with a fancy baked brie that they found in the far corner of Paul's fridge, served with honey and toasts. It’s fiery and fancy enough for Art, cheesy enough for Paul. They never bother with breakfast drinks, but Paul had suggested to warm some milk and put some honey in it. When they’re done with breakfast, they’re sleepier than they were when they went to sleep the previous night.

They turn on the TV and cuddle on the couch. Paul picks up a magazine and completely ignores whatever show is playing on TV. “I just want to hear the sound,” Paul had told Art before doing the wasteful skit. Art doesn’t mind any of this. He sits quietly on the armrest, caressing Paul’s hair while Paul leans on him, making nasty comments about things he sees on the pages as he flips through.

“Hey, it’s Simon and Garfunkel!”

Lorne announces himself—or rather, them—loudly, with a cheerful wave and a happy grin, giving both Paul and Art a start. Lorne jumps on his feet like an excited kid. “I knew it! I knew you’re coming! Okay, I didn’t. I’m just here because Susan’s still not home and I don’t like having breakfast alone.”

Paul groans at the realisation that he forgot to lock his laundry room after stealing the scotch last night. “Lorne, please shut up and skin yourself.”

“I can’t. You two are cute. It’s like watching The Muppets and rooting for Kermit and Miss Piggy. Judging from hair, I’m sorry, Artie, you’re Miss Piggy.”

Paul throws a pillow at him. “Stop Artie-ing him. Do something useful and jump off the roof.”

Lorne catches the pillow and pouts. “So cross. It's almost like I’m not welcomed here.”

Art laughs. He gestures for Lorne to take a sit while patting on Paul's shoulder, signalling him to sit up. Paul makes a lot of groaning noises in refusal, shaking his head and taking both Art's arms to wrap around him. Art grins from ear to ear, somehow feeling smug about the gesture. He looks up at Lorne, who's observing gleefully whilst making his way closer, then smiles earnestly. “So, I heard you kissed Paul.”

Lorne stops in his track. Paul grins and pats Art on the cheek. “Oh God, I love you so much.”

"Okay, I didn't know you know that." Lorne laughs dryly and groans, then he pinches the bridge of his nose and leans himself on the side of an armchair, feeling too self-conscious to join the comfort of being seated. He silently clears his throat, then frowns. “Listen, it’s not my fault. You left this hot piece of ass unattended, what's a neighbour got to do?”

Paul shudders and shakes his head. “God, you make me sick. Artie, be a dear and shave Lorne’s head. I'll get the knife. It may or may not be dull.”

Art chuckles. “Come on, Paul, be nice. He’s never gonna do it ever again. _Is he_?”

Lorne quickly shakes his head. “No, sir.”

Paul frowns and watches as Lorne shrinks in his seat. “Damn, Artie, you’re scary.” Art shrugs with a smirk. Paul finally swings himself to sitting position, nodding at Lorne. “So, you have 10 minutes to get your breakfast, but after that I’m gonna throw a toaster at you because I need to have serious conversation with him.”

“About what? Wait, sorry, husband and wife thing, I guess. I always guess right! Alright, I’ll get out of your hair soon. Hey, hey, how long does it take to get out of _Art's_ hair? I don't think I can ever get out! But Paul, your hair takes like 3 minutes. _My_ hair... Okay, don't kill me. So, what sort of cereals do you have? Don't say Kellogg's cornflakes, because I'm gonna sing.”

Lorne makes a beeline to the kitchen, rummaging Paul’s pantry casually, like it’s his own home. He yelps when he finds a box of cornflakes, then yells the song loudly while looking for the milk in the fridge. Art eyes him with eerie calmness that puts Paul at unease. Noticing his glare, Art grins. “What? You know I’m a crazy jealous person. That’s not surprising.”

Paul lifts an eyebrow and laughs a little. “No, I guess not. I just thought you’ll only be jealous with people who are _actually_ hooking up with me, not the ones who look like baboon’s ass. Just... don't kill Lorne, okay? He's like a free clown. Give him a balloon and you'll get a party.” Paul gives him a peck on the lips, then looks at him intently. “I suppose you’ll never gonna be jealous with Eddie.”

“Oh, I’ve been jealous with Eddie since we were kids.” He sighs softly, then nods. “But I get what you mean. But are you really sure? Do you really want it?”

Paul shrugs. “I mean, I don’t talk about this sort of thing a lot, but I _do_ talk about it. But, I mean, I have you, or my analyst, to talk about my other relationships. I get help from that. But, you know, I never have anyone whenever I have problems with you. And most of my problems _are_ you. In a good way.” Art laughs and nods. Paul smiles. “I don’t want to associate helplessness with the thought of you. And Eddie’s always been there in the worst days of my life. I want to include him in the happiest ones, too.”

“Oh God, that’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard. Paul, make that a song. Make that a song right now.”

“Lorne, I’m not afraid to take Susan from you.”

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry.” Lorne grins and digs into his bowl of cereals. The milk splashes around when he drops his spoon violently in the bowl. “So, you were talking about Eddie? Was it my suggestion to tell Eddie? You’re going to do it?” Both Paul and Art nod. Lorne nods back, takes another bite, and rubs his chin. “Then, what’s the thing you’re going to talk about? I thought it’s gonna be about that. Strategies?”

Paul shrugs. “One of it. But I have something else in mind.”

Art lifts his eyebrows. “What is it?”

Paul’s eyes dart towards Lorne, then back to Art again. His eyebrows twitch. “Well, I don’t really want to provide a spectacle for _him,_ ” he sighs. Paul takes Art’s hand in his, giving it a little squeeze.

“Artie, move in with me.”


	4. Why Planning Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul & Art coming up with short-term plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much just them goofing around, nothing much happens here QwQ

Paul’s fingers have the texture of a crocodile’s skin. It’s rough and patchy. That’s why, whenever he touches Art with those fingers, he takes extra precaution to make sure it doesn’t scratch Art at all or cause him discomfort in any way. There’s a preliminary gingerly contact before the fingers completely drown into the touch. The little brushing over the skin, then it dives into the web of another’s fingers, gripping strongly but never harshly.

That’s how Paul holds Art’s hand that morning.

“Yeah, you should totally do that.”

Paul frowns and glares at the still-munching Lorne. He grins and stands to leave for the kitchen before another pillow attack comes. Art snickers while Paul grumbles and ponders upon what poor choices of friends he’d made through the years, peaking at Lorne, although Art could definitely be it as well.

Art brushes Paul’s hair, calling for attention, which Paul gives lavishly and eagerly. He kisses Paul on the lips, sweet but lingering. He can hear Paul sighing contently when the short contact ends, and Art has to make a mental note not to steal a glance to see whether Lorne is being annoyed by that. No, Art, be the bigger man and forget the whole ‘my best friend’s best friend kissed my best friend’ thing. Oh, look at that, he’s scolding himself again, just like the old time. He really is getting better.

So Art smiles earnestly and plants another kiss, this time on Paul’s temple. He winces and finally glances at Lorne, who’s watching them with ominous interest over a bowl of softening cornflakes. Art murmurs, “Can I be concerned about the connecting door?”

“I’m gonna get that thing welded shut for you.”

Lorne howls. “Nooooo! That’s the token of our friendship! Come on, Artie… I can call you Artie, right? Paul said no, but I think I should ask you, too. It’s gonna be so cool if I can tell people I’m on nickname-basis with _both_ Simon & Garfunkel now. Paulie, Artie. You can call me Lornie.”

“Oh my GOD, Lorne!” Paul glares until Lorne drinks up all the milk off the bowl and ducks under the kitchen sink, and makes him _promise_ to stay quiet until spoken to in exchange for the preservation of the adjoining room. Paul lowers his voice and leans closer to Art. “Whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want to make this comfortable for you. You can move things around, get new chairs, change the colour of the walls, whatever. Heck, you can swing a wrecking ball at it all you like, whatever you want. Just… stay with me?”

Art lifts an eyebrow. He chuckles. “Paul, I _want_ to live with you. Why are you so freaked? Do you really think I was gonna say no?”

“Well…” Paul fidgets self-consciously, “yes? I mean, I don’t know. You left. I don’t know. I did things you don’t like, and all that. Things happened. This might be too soon, or, I don’t know, insensitive. I don’t know. Who knows?”

“Paul,” Art takes Paul’s hand in his grip, giving it a little squeeze for comfort, “I’ve loved you since we were kids. More than half of my life was used to thinking about being together with you.” Slowly, Paul makes an ensured smile on his face. Art beams happily and nuzzles on his nose. “Don’t you think I haven’t thought about coming home to you every day? It’s a nice thing to be able to fuck in a place you call home.”

Lorne shouts, “You can start with the kitchen right now!”

Paul groans again. “Geez, I forgot he has superhuman ears. Fuck you, Lorne!”

“No, fuck Art!”

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!” Paul grits his teeth and whispers at Art, “Okay, I’m glad he’s usually around to get kicked when I’m mad, but I swear to God, sometimes I just wanna boil him alive.”

Art snickers. “Neither of that sounds particularly good for him. Anyway, Paul,” he tugs on Paul’s shirt, like a kid Artie when Paul was paying more attention to other people than him, “I might need to keep my apartment, though.”

Paul lifts his eyebrow. “Really? I mean, I thought you wouldn’t…”

Art nods. “I know. I know what happened there. I couldn’t get inside for months, too. But I’m working on it. I’m getting better at dealing with it. And you’ll make me feel better, so I’m gonna be fine.” Art shrugs. “I just thought, because people can’t know what we are... in case someone comes to your place, I should have a place to stay, right?”

Paul frowns. He runs his fingers through his hair, calming his nerves. “Sure…” he mutters. “But it doesn’t seem to be so weird that I live with my friend, does it?”

“Honey, it’s _weird._ You’re a grown-ass man with buttload of money, you don’t _need_ a roommate.”

“Okay, but…” Paul stops. He purses his lips and forms a little frown and a faint smirk. After a moment, he scoffs a short laughter and looks away, mildly embarrassed. “Okay, I get the appeal of the whole petname thing now. Honey. Yeah, that’s cute, coming from you.”

Art smiles excitedly. “Does that mean I get to be baby now?”

Paul chuckles and drowns Art’s head in his arms. “God, no, you’re still my schmuck.”

“I’ll be your schmuck if Art doesn’t want it.”

“DO YOU HAVE A DEATHWISH OR SOMETHING?!” Paul stands up and sighs in frustration. “He’s just gonna keep on doing that. Let’s wrap things up and play with him for a bit. I know, I know, it’s like having a dog. Maybe one day I’ll take him on a car ride and I’ll do the same thing with the dog I adopted with Peggy.”

Art winces. “Paul, that’s grotesque.”

“Oh, that just means I’m happy.” Paul bends down and gives Artie a little kiss, then he straightens up with a loud disgruntled grunt. He throws a cursory glance towards his kitchen. “Lorne, I’m gonna take shower now. Eat whatever you want and don’t make a mess. I’ll buy you pizza if you’ll be good.”

Art smiles as he watches Paul disappearing behind the bedroom door. He can hear Lorne approaching, perching on the back of the couch, humming to himself. Art lifts an eyebrow at Lorne when he realised the song, and Lorne grins back at him. “So, are you the Emily with honey hair? Were you ever dressed in crinoline?”

Art laughs. “Listen, Lorne? Hudson River is so close, it’s gonna be inconspicuous if we are to throw your dead body over there.”

“Oh, morbid couple. Charming, you two.” Lorne smiles and carefully pats Art on the shoulder. “But seriously, Art, glad to see you back. Are you doing alright? Still doing crazy walks? Oh, oh, I know. Still crazy after all these years? I'm sorry, don't kill me. But are you? Are you the old lover on the street who seemed so glad to see him while he just smiled?”

"Sshh." Art frowns and wonders how in the world can Paul manage to stand Lorne's odd rambling. Is that amusing? It's kinda amusing. Okay, Lorne's a comedy show. “Thanks, Lorne.” He pats Lorne's hand on his shoulder. “I’m doing alright, I guess. And, uh, yeah, still walking a little. I know it sounds like a cry for help, but…”

He stops when Paul’s voice calls him loudly from the bedroom.

Lorne looks at the door. “What's that? Is he calling you? Isn't he in the shower? Can you hear the water? I think the water's off. Should I call the super? Or, is he in trouble? Maybe you should go there. Did you hear him fall? He can’t reach the shower, can he? Poor boy.”

Art shakes his head and sighs, standing up. “No, he’s fine. He’s just… I’m gonna go in there, but he’s fine. He’s…” Art looks at Lorne miserably. “He sometimes forgot whether he’d used soap or not.”

“Oh.” Lorne frowns, nodding, then burst out laughing. “Oh! God, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Alright, go save your husband. I’ll get back to my room. Call me when there’s pizza! Let’s get high and leave Paul to deal with the mess! Come back soon, I have a _ton_ of ideas on what we can do together!”

Art slams the door to shut the voices.

***

Paul puts on his old shoes and sighs heavily on the couch. He doesn’t really want to go, but stalling this dreaded thing would completely ruin the day. Oh, he’d done way too many miserable days with Art, it’s not very entertaining to go through yet another one—especially not when they just found each other again. So, after just a very short discussion under hot shower, they agreed that Paul had to tell Eddie today.

Art crouches down and ties Paul’s shoelaces for him. “Don’t stress out yet, you haven’t even gone out.” Paul smiles weakly, brushes his fingers on Art’s hair. “And it’s your decision, by the way. _And_ you can always… _not_ carry on with it if you don’t want to.”

“I know,” he whines. “I just thought it sounds like a good idea. Or at least an idea, I don’t know. It just… makes sense, you know?”

“I know.” Art nods. The laces on both shoes are secured now. Art is good with shoelaces. He kisses Paul’s knee. “And I like Eddie. And I know how much you love him. If there’s anyone who has to know about us, he’s my first choice.”

“As opposed to Lorne, I guess?” Paul smiles teasingly.

Art laughs. “That’s just the life we live in.” He shifts to sit next to Paul. “You’ll be alright. Eddie’s not gonna turn against you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure you’re right.” Nothing anyone says can make his feelings better now, not even Art. But that helps, probably. A little. Or maybe, it's just relieving to hear Art's voice again, happy and trying to help him through instead of the other way around. So maybe it's really alright. He, at least, has Art right now. Paul claps on his thigh, sighing again, then nods. “So, I’ll head out. Will you be okay?”

Art grins. “Yeah, Paul. I have Lorne, and I’m not a 3-year-old. I’m pretty sure I can manage several hours without you.”

Paul laughs. “You know what I mean.” He kisses Art cursorily on the lips before retreating towards the door, pulling on his coat rashly. He stops as he opens the door, throwing one last look at Art. “I love you.”

Art smiles. “I love you too.”

***

Considering how easy it is for him to get distracted, and how distracting the conversation he’s about to have is, Paul decided to take a taxi to Eddie’s. He sits on the back seat with his eyes closed, constructing words to use to deliver his news. Maybe he should start small. Like, deciding whether he should tell Eddie before, during, or _after_ the lunch. Probably during, so he can’t avoid the conversation. Risk: he’ll throw food at Paul. Might be best to get something that doesn’t leave stain, or anything soupy. This is great. Paul and Eddie are going to get fruits and breads.

It doesn’t matter if he ends up wet or dirty. As long as Eddie’s freakout ends there, things will be alright. He just needs to play it right. Talk about their parents and ballgames and music stuff until lunch time, they go out and get something to drink, they walk and… just before they buy coffee, Paul would deliver the essential. Eddie will be shocked, but they’re already in front of a coffee shop so they’ll have a place to sit. Paul gives him something decaf and milky, they’ll talk quietly… Paul will tell the big picture there, and when they go back to Eddie’s place, he’ll tell the details, including the future plans—if there’s any—so far, he only has ‘moving in with Artie’. Then if Eddie’s calmed down—and Eddie would; that boy has the temperance of a saint—they’ll go to Paul’s house and talk it over with Art, introducing the whole new dynamics and all. Eddie will have support system—Lorne. Lorne will be happy to have a role in this story.

What should he say? He should start with the classic: Eddie, I have something to tell you. Something big. Like that thing you call nose on your face. Nope, don’t tick him off. Anyway, that’s a good start as any. So how should he proceed? Okay, listen, so you know Art, right? Tall, bit of a stickman, dandelion hair, been in love with me for more than 20 years… Yeah, yeah, he loves me. And, yeah, that’s how I’m telling you that we’re…

What? We’re what? Dating? Lovers? Partners? A couple? Why doesn’t any of that sound right? No, because Paul never wants them to fall into any one of those definitions. He wants them to be just… them. Because that way, they’re not _just_ dating, not _just_ lovers, not _just_ friends, or partners, or a couple—they’re _everything._ Maybe, just because they want to be together in conventional way, doesn’t mean they have to surrender to conventional identification. Maybe they can be just that—Simon and Garfunkel, the everything.

Paul chuckles to himself. God, that would be _way_ too long to say to Eddie, and this is already confusing as it is. Whatever, just tell him that they fuck and be done with it.

The street rolls quickly, or so it seems from the side window of the car. The tall offices, the coffee shops, the street signs. Paul plays the scenario over and over again. He refuses to think of what he has to do if Eddie doesn’t react in the expected way, no. One at a time. Step one, get out of the taxi (and pay). Step two, see Eddie and greet him warmly because you apparently miss him. Step three…

“Eddie, I’m in love with Art.”


	5. Why Don’t You EVER Stick With the Plan?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul tells Eddie the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want pizza

When Eddie woke up that morning, he was thinking about getting a cup of mocha for himself. There’s a café nearby that sells the best mocha he’d ever tasted—robust coffee with nutty note, delectable melted milk chocolate, creamy milk and just a dash of sea salt to give it interesting twist— _and_ the most delicious pain au chocolat anywhere in the neighbourhood. A chocolatey and buttery day, warm and sweet; just perfect. Eddie gets excited about the smallest things—fresh snow, clear sky, good food—although this chocolatey breakfast set is not that small of a feat, in his opinion. It’s a delightful thought to have in the morning. Waking up and knowing exactly what you want and what to do: that’s the dream.

Eddie did exactly that. He went to fetch the nice breakfast and his newspaper, stopped to get himself a couple of magazines, then returned to get himself an extra scarf and hat—he’s going for a little walk around, he thought, as it was quite a nice day. When he opened the door, he was greeted with a ringing of his phone, and Paul meant to make a visit, if he’s not very busy. He wasn’t, and he thought that his brother would probably need a friend. After all, his girlfriend was _just_ kind of engaged to a co-star way all the way over there in Chicago.

It’s good that he’s reaching out, thought Eddie. Paul was always exhaustingly private about… everything, really. He didn’t talk about his friends, or his girlfriends, or himself… He just talked about music, as if nothing else matters in the world. That, and baseball, sometimes. But mostly that.

Still, he had time. Eddie took his scarf and hat, then made a little trip around the block, finding something to eat for when Paul came by. He took several pastries and a bag of coffee beans for his thinning jar. Probably some fruits? Berries? Not Paul’s favourite, not his as well, so, no. Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to make your own pudding?

Paul’s not too far away, so he might come any time soon. Eddie didn’t wander for too long. He returned home and waited, turning over his new magazines while munching one slice of a spiced bread and sipping carefully on a piping hot ginger tea. He folded everything when he heard the sound of knocking on the door. Eddie smirked and cursed under his breath, “Why wouldn’t he just use doorbell like other people?”

He unlatched the door and turned the handle. The familiar sight of his brother—if slightly pale and wide-eyed—came from the revealed space beyond the door. Eddie smiled and moved to greet him in a hug when Paul opened his mouth.

“Eddie, I’m in love with Art.”

***

Eddie blinks.

Paul blinks, too. Eddie reaches his hand forward. His brother looks so much like him, sometimes he needs to convince himself that he’s not standing in front of a mirror. No, he’s not. That’s Paul. The crazy, whacky-ass Paul who wouldn’t stop strumming on his guitar until the strings couldn’t budge owing to the caking blood from his fingers. He stares at Eddie with mortified expression on his face, blood draining from it, turning it white. He’s in love with Art. What does that mean? Say contemporary art. Say pre-Raphaelite art. Anything—just… anything.

“Artie?”

He nods.

Eddie looks down. Artie. Artie, the guy whose hair looks like an unattended shrub Artie? Who spent most of his life around Paul, either in person or as a source of anger? He loves Artie. That Artie?

There’s no answer for questions he doesn't ask. He shouldn’t have expected too much from his shoes anyway.

Eddie realised that the two of them has been standing there for quite sometimes now. He lifts his face to find Paul, who doesn’t seem to have blinked in the last 20 years, then moves back. “Come in, Paul.”

Paul submits to the instruction—very uncharacteristic of him, which means this is terminal. Eddie closes the door behind him and quickly re-attached the latch, as if scared that someone would barge in and steal the secret. The secret. That Eddie just found out.

Eddie clears his throat. “So… When you said you’re in love with Art…”

Paul stopped. Or rather, he froze, like a dead cricket trapped in the peak of ice age. No movement, no sound—nothing.

“Paul, I think you should sit down.” Eddie moves in to take Paul’s arm and leads him to the couch. Eddie thinks of the pastries and the coffee or tea he could’ve offered, but this doesn’t seem like the right time to play host. He grips Paul’s wrist, trying to get him back from daze. “Paul, are you saying… Are you saying that you and Art…?”

Paul withdraws, sinking further into the couch, trying to disappear. Eddie shakes him by the shoulders. “Paul,” he insists. “What are you saying? Paul, talk to me.”

“I already said it,” Paul replies in quick lash. His eyes suddenly glint sharply at Eddie, defensive. “You heard me. That’s all there is to say.”

Eddie frowns. “You can’t expect me to just understand that. Even if I _do_ understand the meaning of the words, that still doesn’t explain what you’re talking about. You came all the way here to talk, and suddenly you don’t wanna talk? If that's what you want, then, fine! Leave me out of it! Go home and just brood all you want, like you always do.”

Paul glares at him, but he suddenly slumps and nods weakly. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. Eddie exhales silently. He doesn’t do well with yelling at Paul, or at anyone. No, the Simons don’t argue that way. The Simons plot revenge or immediately erase the existence of their enemy. Arguing loudly is not in their gene.

So Eddie tries to fix the situation by eventually offering Paul a cup of tea—with milk, because it’s Paul. Paul murmurs something about preferring chocolate, because it’s Paul, and Eddie smiles because he knows that conversation can run normally now. He sits back down and bends to take his own tea. “Ready to talk now?”

Paul nods. He takes a sip of the tea and looks up from the rim of his cup. Eddie’s never seen Paul looking at him with fear before. It’s not as fun as he thought it would be.

“Don’t hate me.”

Eddie’s mouth opens in disbelief, and, abandoning his task to fetch the tea, he quickly pulls Paul into a hug. He realised that Paul’s still wearing his coat, and somehow it feels cold in his arms. “God, Paul, no. I’m not sure how to feel right now, but definitely not hate. Not towards you, not towards Artie, none of that. I just… need time to process this. I just don’t get it. What about Peggy? Or Carrie, or Kathy, or Shelley…”

“Their names rhyme,” Paul mutters. “Almost.”

“Not the point, Paul, but I’m glad you’re seeing the important part of this conversation.” Eddie grins and lets go of Paul. The red on his cheeks has returned and he’s smiling a little now. Eddie sighs in relief. “Okay. Okay, so you like Art. Do you… Do you like… guys? I mean… Oh God, what about your friend, Lorne Michaels? Is that why you're living so close to him? With that whole connecting door and everything?”

“Ew, no. No! No. NO. Get that thought out of your head. NO!” Paul shakes his head. “No, just Artie.” He stops to sip and think. “Ironically, I asked exactly that to him, years ago.”

“Really?” Eddie frowns. “How long has this been going? Are you two… I don’t know. Boyfriends? Married… somehow?”

Paul laughs. “No, I don’t know. We’re just… us, you know? It’s complicated.”

“I bet,” Eddie replied. “But, that means… he knows? You two had been together, of course he knows.” He looks at his hands, not sure what to say. He wants to support Paul—always. He likes Paul no matter what. He’s the best brother in the world, the best friend, too. Art sure feels that too; if not, he wouldn’t…

“And Art loves you too?”

Paul brings himself to face Eddie, then nods. That’s it. Very simple. Very conclusive. Leaving no room for questions or interpretations. There’s nothing to ask.

Eddie brings his fingers into fists and clenches, holding back something he doesn’t know what. He swallows with difficulty, not sure why. Is it disgust? No, it isn’t. It’s Paul. And it’s Art. Everything makes perfect sense now. How he’d been crying throughout his marriage, how they broke up so bitterly shortly after that and how things were never really repaired…

It’s sadness. He’s sad for them; for everything they had to go through. How they had to witness love and life unfold before them without being able to participate as a whole—they’re always living with one foot outside the real world, forcibly snatched from truth and carrying with them a face made of lies.

Eddie feels his fists shuddering on his lap.

“Are you happy?” he asks, his voice sounds small. The Simons were born small. They’re made to look up at the sky from afar. That’s how they can recognise wonder; that’s how they can carry on dreaming—when the light is so far away, the only way to survive is to hope.

Paul nods.

“Then, I suppose my say on this doesn’t matter. Not that it ever matters.” Eddie looks at him again, sternly. “I love you Paul. I don’t care what Garfunkel says, I’m the one who loves you the most of all in this world. I don’t give a fuck who you love, okay? I just love you. Like you love him, I love you, too.” Eddie pulls him into a hug, squeezing tightly until they can feel each other’s heart beating beneath their sweaters. The Simons were born in sweaters, their mother said. It was a joke their mother made about their body hair. It’s a cold world for The Simons, but they’re smart enough to have their own sweaters. They’d laughed it off. But they did grow up with bad tolerance with the cold, and so they always do wear sweaters.

Eddie could feel hot tears wetting on it now. It slowly sneaks into the soldiers of knits and licks the shirt underneath it, and it leaves a cold patch on his skin. Paul’s not a cryer, their mother said. Paul barely even cried when he was born. It’s like he opened his eyes, yelled at people for waking him up, noticed his surrounding, then, meh. Then he’s off figuring things out. But he’s crying now. Nearly 40 years since the day he was born, he’s crying, silently, in the arms of his younger brother.

And that younger brother, too, cries. Paul had sworn never to let anyone make Eddie cry (which had happened quite often, and they both know it), and now he’s the one causing the tears. Or it’s not really him. It’s the life he has to live in.

Eddie tightens his embrace and fights for breath, and winning. He whispers, “Thank you,” then goes back to silent sobs. Paul doesn’t reply. He doesn’t ask why. He just knows. More than anyone, he knows Eddie.

And more than anyone, Eddie loves Paul.

***

In Paul’s apartment, Art is trying not to kill Lorne. They’d ventured the neighbourhood to find something to eat before eventually stopping to get themselves the promised meal: two large pans of pizza—a supreme one and an anchovy— with additional box of potato salad, a portion of grilled tomatoes, and two bottles of red wine. Art started with the wine.

When they’ve gone through the whole story on his relationship with Paul, Lorne begins to produce better subjects for conversation and Art enjoys their time a little more. Each of them eats two slices of pizza from each box, wondering whether they should save some for Paul, then proceeds to smoking joints in Lorne’s living room. They end up incredibly hungry, and that’s the last of “what about Paul” pizzas.

After the joints wear off, Lorne and Art try to sober up in front of glaring TV that’s playing a TV show Art’s never watched before. Lorne criticises him for not knowing, pushing him at the shoulder. “That’s… I know that girl. Laverne. I know her. Not Laverne, the actress. I’ll… introduce her to you. She’ll get a kick out of it—someone who’d never watched the show before!” He groans, massaging his temple a little. “Brilliant girl. Not you-type of brain, but _very_ funny. You’ll love her.”

Art shrugs and mumbles, “Can’t wait.”

Lorne stands up, wobbling a little but managing to get support by grabbing the armrest. He limps towards the sink, finding himself a glass of water. He considers to light up another roll. Just when he’s twisting his heel to ask whether Art would like another as well, there comes a loud knock on the door that gives both him and Art a start.

He laughs. “Yikes, that was ill-timed.”

Art grins and quickly jumps out of the couch. “That must be Paul.”

With a little difficulty, Art reaches the door and turns the handle. He grins widely, partially from the high, partially from the thought of seeing Paul, before he briefly thinks about how the news Paul’s carrying might be bad. No, he doesn't really think that's happening. It's a happy day!

But that’s not even Paul at the door.

Art’s smile fades. His eyes widen and his heartbeats slow down. He can hear Lorne calling from behind him, but he feels like kitchen is a world away. Or he’s a world away. Or he’s still high. This can’t be real.

He gulps.

“Hello, Carrie.”


	6. Why Time is Ill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No time is ever the right time.

Eddie tosses a raisin up in the air. “So when we were kids and you told me to leave you two alone,” Paul catches the raisin in his mouth then proceeds to chew it smugly, “were you two doing funny things in the bedroom?”

Paul shakes his head. He crosses his legs on Eddie's couch, then readies himself for the next throw. “I _told_ you, it wasn’t until we’re in college. Before that, it was fairly timid.” He eyes Eddie's hand that's been sifting through the trail mix in a bowl. He wants a piece of almond, but surprise is half the fun so he doesn't give any instruction.

Eddie nods. “Cool, cool. Hey, try the pumpkin seed.” He tosses one and Paul chokes on it. Eddie laughs at him and quickly shoves a glass of water before his brother dies of being laughed at. While waiting for him to drink, Eddie thinks and eventually frowns. “Wait, what do you mean ‘ _fairly_ ’?”

Now Paul chokes on the water. He giggles when the coughing’s over, then squeezes his eyes. “Okay, we kissed once when we were 15. But I didn’t do anything, it was all Artie! He kissed me and I freaked out!”

“Whaat, he made the first move? Thought if anything insane was happening, you would be the one starting the riot. Hey, was that why you two stopped hanging out?” Paul nods. Eddie rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Why, that explains a lot. Mom always said that it's not because you're in different schools. She's pretty sharp, Mom.” Then Eddie stops rummaging the trail mix and narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Have you ever done anything weird in my bedroom? Because I’ll kill you. I have a handful of pumpkin seeds.”

Paul laughs. “No, no, never in your bedroom. God, even _I_ thought that would weird. No.” He shakes his head. “Trust me, we didn’t do much at home.”

Eddie glares. “Paul, what _did_ you do?”

Paul cringes and groans a little. If it’s other people, they’d definitely miss that ‘fairly’ and ‘much’, but not Eddie. Eddie’s too well-trained to not detect that. No, he knows how to find Paul’s sort of hiding-in-plain-sight cue words in the midst of his truthful sentences. Paul relents. “Okay, you remember that time when my friend died and Artie came?”

“Uh-huh. Oh…” Eddie shudders. “You have no idea how disturbed I am right now.”

“Hey, you’re the one asking questions. You know, you will _never_ ask these questions if Artie was a girl.”

“Nuh-uh. Will do so. I’m protective of the sanctity of _my_ house. He’s your childhood friend, for fuck’s sake! You’re in your bedroom, just the two of you, nearly every day! Who knows what you two’d been up to. Hey, Mom badgered me when _my_ best friend was Darla Thompson, remember? So it’s not the question of what they have in their pants, just the potential of what might have unfolded behind closed doors.”

Paul pouts but considers his words. “Yeah, you’re right. Okay, but that’s it—that’s the only thing we’d ever done at home. Stop asking me this, it’s weird talking about this with you.”

Eddie nods. “Point taken and very much agreed to.” He keeps quite for a while, thinking while munching whatever nuts or dried fruits he catches from the bowl. Paul tries to pick one, but Eddie suddenly shifts to face Paul again. “Okay, I have a _lot_ of questions about what’s been going on in between that time and this one, but you’re talking to me _now._ Why? What’s going on with you two now?”

“Oh!” Paul sits up straight, his eyes sparkling with excitement. He grins. “I just asked Artie to move in with me.”

Eddie grins and chirps with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Oh, great! You, and Artie, and Lorne. You three are gonna have a _lot_ of fun.”

Paul hits Eddie’s head with a cushion. “Just me and Artie, _not_ Lorne. But you have a point. I’m gonna talk Susan into buying a house in, I don’t know, Moldova, so I don’t have to see his face anymore. Speaking of which, he knows, too. Not that I told him before you, he just found out. Pretty annoying, actually. He said it’s pretty apparent, or whatever.”

Eddie folds his arms and leans back, his brows meeting in the middle of his forehead. “Huh. Well, yeah, I guess it’s actually pretty apparent. I mean, not to me, because I know both of you and you two _didn’t_ have other friends, so I didn’t know whether you two were doing anything special or if that’s just the way you befriend people.”

Paul shrugs. “I don’t know. You and Lorne are my best friends, too, and I pretty much treat you two the same way I treat Artie. I mean, not with the whole fucking thing, but others, definitely.”

“Okay, I didn't need to hear that and _please_ never do that again. And... yeah, I suppose you're right. Actually, yeah. That’s just how you treat people. Yeah, people are just not very used to… you. Hey, don’t look at me like that. We’re all selectively intense. Look at Dad.” Paul laughs and nods. Their father _is_ intense with attention for those who can hold it. Eddie was blessed with a pinch of their mother, but Paul is his father, through and through. “But you have nothing with other people. You don't like any other guy, you said, right?" Paul nods. Eddie tilts his head. "So, he’s special, huh?”

Paul nods again. It's a very uncompromising gesture from him, and the surety makes Eddie smile, somehow. Somehow, it makes him glad to see how certain he is with this. If he's that firm on this, he's gonna find a way. Paul always does. You can't be a rock star, you can't find success in this, you can't do it alone... Paul finds a fucking way anyway. So it's gonna be alright. Eddie pats Paul on the shoulder. “Okay. That’s good enough. And good for him, after all he’d been through. I can’t imagine how that feels like. So, when is he moving in? Wait, he knows you’re telling me this, right?”

“He knows. Actually, I have nothing else on my to-do list. I just saw him last night since Laurie, and, I don’t know, we get to talk a bit and he seemed well enough… And, actually, I _just_ asked him, like, a couple hours ago. Then I came here to tell you.”

Eddie laughs with a big frown. “That’s crazy. That all happened in practically one day. Are you sure it’s a good idea? I mean, it’s probably a good idea, but shouldn’t you sleep on it first? It's quite a big decision, you know. You know, just, in general, moving in with your, eh, Artie. Seriously, what do you call him? Boyfriend?”

Paul grins. “Don't call him my boyfriend, that's fucking weird. And, I don’t know. But, yeah, actually, you’re right. Seems like a rush, eh? But, I don’t know... I’d been in this with Artie since, what? More than a decade ago?” He shrugs again. “Kinda seems like a waste to wait around wondering if it’s a good idea. We’re done with the thinking. It's a good idea. We're doing it.”

“Makes sense.” Eddie nods. It _does_ make sense. In a way that Paul can make rash decision sensible, it all makes sense. “And he’s okay with you telling me? Is he gonna tell his brothers too?”

Paul laughs. “Jules and Jerome? I don’t know, I don’t think so. I don’t think Art’s gonna tell this to...” He pauses. The only time someone from Art’s part found out about them, it was Laurie, and look how well it went. His heart sinks. He'd caused so much pain in Art's life, and there's just so little he could do to make it worth. How much more should Art lose? How much more pain? He'd been blessed with kind surroundings, Paul. Artie doesn't have half his luck. For one, _he_ has Artie, and Artie only has... him. Whatever's coming in the calculation, it still doesn't seem like a fair tally. Paul shakes his head and clears his throat nervously, “anyone. He’s not gonna tell this to anyone. So, I don’t know, Eddie, you could be counsel for both of us, or something along that line. Hey, feel free to defend him all you like, I have Lorne.”

“Right…”

“Also,” Paul grins, “he’s in my apartment right now. I think we have to talk, all of us. I mean, not about this or anything, just… I don’t know. Easing in to it. You've only known the two of us as friends this far, so.”

Eddie nods. “I get it. Okay. Awesome. Right now? Do you have something to eat? I haven’t had lunch.”

Paul lets Eddie pick their lunch menu in nearby restaurant and they store the great Chinese feast on the back of Eddie’s car—he went a little too far, Eddie, but he thought it’s somewhat a celebration or an event at least, so it deserves a BIG lunch. Still, he probably shouldn't have ordered half the existing menu in that restaurant. Paul has to watch over the containers on the back seat all the way home, while Eddie cruises through the lane, much less worried. He's only worried about the tangerine chicken, but not much for his car, no.

The real challenge is carrying all of the food to the apartment. After several minutes trying to crack the math, hysterically snickering on both sides of the car while doing the strategy, they eventually managed to take all the containers in one go. Paul laughs and tries so hard not to shudder too much to avoid disturbing his tower of food, and groans in relief when the lift stops at his floor. Eddie follows him, equally gigglish and sweaty with attempt to suppress it.

With the tower of containers in front of their faces, they can’t make up the face of the woman who walks past them as they wobble down the corridor.

***

The apartment is silent when Paul and Eddie walk in. The heads of Art and Lorne are peeking from the couch, but they’re quiet. Paul places his load on the kitchen counter and approaches carefully.

They’re not asleep. Paul runs his fingers on Art’s hair. “Artie?” he calls. Art still doesn’t move. “Artie, are you high?”

Lorne’s eyes move to meet Paul’s, his face unusually grave. Paul frowns, mouthing a “what”, but Lorne doesn’t seem to want to answer. But the answer comes anyway; from the kitchen, Eddie calls his name. “Paul?” Paul turns his head. Eddie is looking down at a piece of white paper in his hand. He frowns at Paul, looking worried. “There’s a letter from Carrie.”

“What?”

Paul looks at Lorne. He nods very subtly, almost invisible. He opens his mouth to speak, but another voice intercepts. “Carrie came here.” It was Art. Art’s eyes dart downwards, avoiding everyone’s attention. “She was looking for you. She just left. Didn’t you see her on your way in?”

Paul and Eddie share a panicked glance. “No,” Paul answers.

“Well, she’s here.” Art blinks at the TV. “You should read the letter.”

He hesitates.

Carrie was here.

He can feel Eddie staring at him from the kitchen, holding the letter like a page to a knight on the night of his execution. Lorne looks at him sadly, waiting. Art sits still, as if afraid that a single twitch of his finger would change the whole course of his life forever. It’s not like this, this morning. Paul—he woke up in bliss, tracing all lines on the high forehead that belongs to the man that he loves, silently recounting every single reason for that love to take place until he couldn’t contain it only in his head anymore, and it slipped out of his mouth, like a drop of dew from a leaf in the morning. He declared his love to this man that morning, and it felt like finality. There’s nothing left to think, there’s nothing left to consider, there’s nothing left to say. _I love you_ —it’s that simple.

Now everything crumbles and the whole day needs rethinking. Carrie came along. Carrie was here.

Paul shakes his head.

“Lorne, Eddie, can you give us a minute?” He turns to see Eddie. “Take whatever you want. Go get lunch with Lorne. I’ll be with you.”

Eddie nods and quickly takes the toppest container without seeing its content, eager to leave, not even thinking of tangerine chicken or any combination of chicken and citrus. Lorne, too, nods and stands up. “I’ll decant my finest wine,” he offers weakly, then leaves.

As soon as they’re gone, Paul drops himself on the seat next to Art. They stare at nothing, limp and quiet, like they were when they were young and high. Paul’s heart beats so strongly, it feels like he’s being pushed at each pulse. He retreats to the end of the couch until there’s nowhere to go.

His voice sounds raspy when he speaks. “Artie, I’m not gonna open the letter.”

Art fidgets.

“Not now, at least,” he continues. “I’m not gonna lie, I’m thinking about her.”

“Of course you do,” Art murmurs. He feels Paul’s fingers found him. He doesn’t refuse them. He simply doesn’t have energy to.

Why did he pick up the phone? Why did he ask to come to Paul’s apartment? Why did he _come_? Nothing makes sense and he knows it. Why did it feel alright to accept Paul’s assertion of his feelings? Why did it feel alright to say it back? He’d been trashing that one word, that one feeling, over and over again for months since Laurie was gone. But when that morning rose and those lips spoke, it felt like nothing’s ever happened. No Laurie, no Linda, no Elaine Eidelman who broke his heart in middle school… no one, nothing. There’s just Paul. The world revolved around Paul again—the world was Paul again. And he accepted it just like that. That love, that open arms, that inviting hand. The offer that was proposed out of whim, was it really by design to have it welcomed without much thought? Move in with me. Yes. Something’s wrong and Art knows it.

 _Time is tapping on my forehead._ Time is running out; that’s why. They only had so much until Carrie flew back from Chicago, from the glam and the glitter, the proposal and the sapphire ring, and to the one person she truly ever wants. And there’s no way Paul would’ve let this go. Artie, he’s just here to savour what time he could share with Paul. To be a little healed, to get a little help. To taste a little love. He’d had it all. It’s fair. When he'd had all he needed, it's time to leave. That's the way it goes. It’s all fair.

“Artie, I love you.” His voice sounds so empty. Paul is a whirlwind of life; he can't sound that empty.

Art nods. “I love you too, Paul.” His voice sounds empty, too.

He thinks of his apartment, now waiting for his return again. His heart aches, but not because of the tragedy in the summer before; it’s the fate he accepts in the present winter. This is just how far they’re ever gonna come: Almost. Like running late in the morning and dashing across the street, only to see the bus leaving as you reached the stop. Like words nearly spoken but never leaving the tongue; they’re the truest of love who simply won’t ever see the world.

But they’re the only truth there is to know.

Art tightens his grip around Paul’s fingers. “Forever.”


	7. Why Fairness is Inconceivable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another parting of ways.

Art moved back to let Carrie in.

She looked beautiful, Carrie. Her lustrous dark brown hair draped down her frail shoulders like a damask curtain, her tanned skin peeped from beneath the black scarf that’s wrapped around her long neck. Carrie beamed at the sight of Art, brightening the gloomy winter corridor. Even when she’s obviously just gotten off her plane, she looked like a little fairy.

Carrie carelessly dropped her carry-on and hugged Art warmly. “Artie!” she exclaimed, with her deep, throaty voice. Carrie had such wonderful voice. On one high evening, she told Paul that she once sang Bridge for her mother on the stage, and they watched the home video together. She was fifteen. She was young and beautiful and she sang the greatest dedication of Paul's love for Artie on that stage as if it wouldn't hurt one day, about ten years later or so. Paul told Artie that she sang beautifully. Artie made a funny face because he’s not sure whether he liked the idea that Paul liked someone else singing that song. That song belonged to him—he said so—he said he wrote it with Artie’s voice in his mind. Even _he_ didn’t wanna sing it, but he’d let Carrie sing it? No, Artie, that’s _his_ song, he can bloody well do anything he wants with it. Shut up, Artie’s mind. No, _you_ shut up. Okay, Art’s going crazy.

He wondered whether it’s weird for Carrie to know that she once sang a song written by her future boyfriend. He wondered whether it’d be weird if Carrie knew that she was singing a song that her future boyfriend wrote for _his_ boyfriend.

Aren’t they boyfriends, though?

Carrie let him go, still with her ear-to-ear grin. “How are you? I haven’t heard from you in a while. You’re doing alright, right? Oh, God, Paul’s been a huge pain in the ass, worrying about you. Where is he?”

“Carrie.” Art finally responded. He laughed weakly and moved a step back to let Carrie in. “Uh, Paul’s not here. Sorry. It’s just me and, uh…”

Carrie peeked into the room and grinned widely. “Lorne Michaels.”

Lorne nodded from the kitchen with restrained smile. “Miss Carrie Fisher.” He quickly left his glass in the kitchen and walked up to the door to hug Carrie. Art moved further back, feeling more and more awkward as seconds go by. Lorne patted her shoulders. “Sorry, Carrie. As he said, Paul’s not here. He went to his brother’s, got a thing to do. But why are you here? Aren’t you in Chicago? What about Dan? Ay-kro-yd...?”

“Oh.” Carrie walked in and waved her hand. Art, noticing the bag on the floor, quietly fetched it and pulled it into the apartment before closing the door. Lorne’s already gone off to get a drink with Carrie. “Yeah, it's Aykroyd, Lorne. You're still struggling, huh? Don't worry, you don't have to really remember it. I mean, unless you're keeping him in your show. But the whole engagement thing? Yeah, we’ve got the blood tests and everything, kinda all set… He gave me this sapphire ring, I gave him painting of a monkey… But…”

Lorne lifted his eyebrow and his glass. “But?” he asked impatiently.

Carrie took a swig of her drink and shook her head. “I think I’d better talk to Paul in person.”

“Do you wanna get back together with him?”

Carrie and Lorne threw a glance at Art who’s still standing at the door, slightly forgotten. Lorne quickly looked down at his glass, clearing his throat uneasily, while Carrie kept still, only her eyes got far away. She sighed softly, suddenly looking very tired. She looked up at Art with hopeful glint in her eyes. “Do you think he’ll take me back?”

Art stiffened. “Maybe,” he mumbled. “But why? What’s wrong with Dan Aykroyd?”

Carrie tilted her head, taking Artie in, as if trying to see through him. If she found anything, she didn’t raise any objection. Carrie laced her fingers together, perching her pretty little chin on top of it, and said,

“He’s not Paul.”

And Art understood that much too well.

***

The white door on Lorne’s kitchen swings open. Lorne and Eddie, both huddled over a singular container of chicken chop suey, turn their heads so quickly, their necks hurt. Lorne groans and rubs his neck, and Paul giggles. “That’s music.”

“Shut up, Paul.” Lorne stops and watches as Art walks out of the doorstep in silence, his steps almost floating. He withdraws a little, collapsing back to his seat.

Paul breezily wanders around the kitchen and pulls open Lorne’s pantry, taking a glass for himself. “Where’s that wine you promised me? And what have you two been talking about?”

“Well.” Lorne frowns, sharing a glance at Eddie. He stands up and grabs a bottle of wine at the edge of the kitchen counter, bringing it to the crowd. Paul hands Art the first glass. “Well, actually, Eddie and I had been coming up with interpretations of your songs, hadn’t we, Eddie boy? Yeah, and we're trying to decipher which songs you actually wrote for Art, but were so heavily-veiled. So my hot take was: everything. Eddie begs to differ. What did you say, boy? I believe you said, ‘all of them’.”

“That didn’t happen, but I wish it did.” Eddie grins at Paul.

Lorne claps his hands enthusiastically. “Let’s say it happened! Now all that’s left is to ask what the hell did you two do down by the schoolyard?”

Paul giggles into his wine, making it bubble. He pushes the glass away, wiping his mouth without stopping the fit of laughter. “Nothing! I _told_ you, we didn’t do anything when we’re in school! Eddie, a little help here?”

Eddie laughs. “Yeah, Lorne. He just wished _really, really_ hard that he’d have done that with Artie back when they were kids. So, what were you hoping, Paul? What were you hoping you'd have done with Artie in the schoolyard?”

Paul screeches. “Traitor. Okay, no. No one talks about my songs. And, people, _please_ stop asking about that one song? That includes you, Artie.”

Artie grins at his glass of wine.

“Anyway,” Lorne clears his throat and looks at the two of them carefully. “That was a short discussion you two had. All settled?”

Paul and Art share a glance, pausing for what feels to be forever, then Paul shrugs. “I’m not gonna do anything about Carrie today. I haven’t seen Artie in a long time, let me have this one.” He downs his wine and pours another.

Lorne nods and is about to go fetch the fabled spare ribs in the neighbouring apartment, but Eddie straightens his back and sighs sadly. Paul lifts an eyebrow. Eddie the Blessed is known for his ability to perceive through the half-truths. He says, “What about tomorrow?”

Paul looks at Art, both amused and irritated. If only they’d waited to tell Eddie until tomorrow, they would’ve been able to not answer that. But, no, Saint Eddie just has to receive the information at the right time, and therefore interfere avoidance of discussion very effectively. Art clears his throat, deciding to take the talking duty. “We’re done talking about it. It wasn’t much of a discussion. Both of us knows what we want to do.”

“Really?” Lorne clasps his hands together, settling back to the kitchen stool. “So you two are sticking around, right? What are you gonna tell Carrie? Did you read the letter? What did she say?”

“Um…” Paul taps his finger tips on the counter, looking down. “I haven’t read it. Why did she write the letter anyway?”

Lorne clicks his tongue, recalling the day. “Because we said you’re going to take care of something _very serious and very private_ with Eddie, so she can’t go to see you there. Smart, eh? Praise me. Go on, praise me. Alright, sorry. She waited for a while, you know? Yeah, used your bathroom and all. Then she said she needed sleep, so she left.”

“She didn’t wanna leave before trying to tell you what she wanted to tell you,” Art added. He shrugs. “So I suggested her to write it down, so she can leave and have her message delivered.”

Paul lifts an eyebrow. “Cunning.”

Art grins. “Not like either of you would like to have conversation like that, knowing that you’d have to hang out with us afterwards. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Paul sighs unexcitedly. “No, Artie, you’re not wrong. You’re always right.”

“Like a God.”

“I’m not gonna say that, you haughty bastard.”

The two of them share a laughter and the conversation goes on, warping around the topic of Carrie and drifting towards funny things that happened in a certain party or two, the sort of genius that is the creation of spring rolls, and best birthday cake variety. But before it all began, Paul locked eyes with Eddie, who knew what he was really saying, and shook his head a little. Eddie looked down and nodded as subtly. He said nothing. He let the evening come to pick them up, and he takes his leave with a long, lingering hug for his brother, his eyes filled with sadness. He gives a little smile before he turns around and makes his way home.

Paul closes the door and looks at Artie who’s standing in the middle of his apartment. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his face looking like a child waiting for guidance. Paul wants to take a picture of that. Paul wants to take a picture of every movement that Art makes. He’s so perfect; like sunrise, like the rain, like the sound of whistling birds, like flowers in the spring, like frosted lake and holding hands. Nothing in the world can touch his perfection.

Paul smiles at him. Imperfection and a little smile is all he can give, yet Art takes it with earnestness. As if it’s important. As if it’s precious. As if it’s enough.

“I love you.”

Art nods. “I love you.”

Paul looks at Lorne, who’s waiting with mild confusion and worry in the kitchen. Paul makes a small wave at him. “I need some rest,” he says. Then, very weakly, he adds, “Thank you, Lorne.”

“Paul?” Lorne frowns, starting to move towards the leaving Paul. But he couldn’t stop Paul who’s already disappearing into his bedroom. Lorne stares at the grey door, barring him from the dejected man, his eyes wide with shock and realisation.

Slowly, Lorne turns his head at Artie. His face asks a question and Art’s eyes make the silent reply for him. Lorne puts his hand to cover his sad gasp, then he quickly draws Art into a big hug. Art accepts it.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he said.

“I know.” Art nods.

“You can talk to me anytime you want,” he assures.

“Nah, I don’t really like you.”

Lorne laughs and releases Art from his embrace. “Well, if you can get all snarky at me, it means you’re fine.” He pauses and gives a sad smile. “Are you fine?”

“No,” Art replied. “But we’ve been here. We’ve been here a lot, it feels like it’s happening again because we haven’t learned from the previous experiences. Every time it seems like we’re moving forward, someone comes along to make sure we won’t.” He looks down at his feet, recounting each time they’re stymied by the most random occurrences. Paul first kissed him before he’s returning to England to find Kathy. They were madly in love, living day after day being together, when Paul met Peggy. Paul was ready for Artie when _he_ had Laurie. Now, when both of them are ready to be together, comes Carrie. Art shakes his head. “The whole world is against us, and still we fight it. Suppose we’re just a couple of idiots.”

Lorne offers him a little squeeze on the shoulder. “Or maybe you two are just very much in love.”

“Same difference,” he mumbles. Art closes his eyes and inhales deeply. “I’m gonna be fine. It’s just difficult at first. It’s difficult to feel so very alone.”

“Well, you don’t have to feel alone. I’m no Paul Simon, but I’m Paul Simon’s neighbour. I guess that counts for something, somehow. I don’t know, maybe it doesn’t. But, I’m here! Eddie’s here! Bitch about Paul with us! We can pile on it! Did you know that Paul confiscated my bird-shaped earmuffs? Now there’s no little birdie to help me through the winter. That menace!”

Art only smiles a little and gives him a half-hearted nod. Lorne sighs heavily. He doesn’t like this situation. This isn’t fair. They’d been struggling so hard to get here, to make peace with themselves that this is what they need: each other. Now it’s gonna be snatched away, once again, just when they reached the doorstep. This isn’t fair.

Lorne clears his throat and puts his hand on Art’s shoulder again. “Okay, I might not be doing the right thing right now, but maybe this will help you a little, somehow…”

Art raises his eyebrows. Lorne quickly makes a warning gesture with his finger. “Mind you, this isn’t exactly wise. I’m not known for my wisdom. I’m known for my rugged-handsomeness and my special skill in the art of ancient…”

“Lorne.”

“Right, sorry.” He coughs again, uneasy, looking at anywhere that’s not Art.

“So, you know how I told you I know the girl from that show, Laverne and Shirley?”


	8. Why the World Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks during The Empire Strikes Back premiere.

“Penny?”

“Yes, Paul?”

“There’s an Art on your shoulder.”

Carrie grins and swats Art’s hand from her best friend. Art winces and removes his fingers. Carrie pounds her tiny fist up in the air in victory. “That’s a big one.”

Art watches as Carrie slips into Paul’s arm, then quickly changes the look on his face. He mumbles to Penny, “They’re the small ones, how am I the one being treated like a mosquito?”

Penny pats Art on the chest. “That’s because you have an aura of a bug.”

“Mosquito’s not a _bug._ ”

“Artie, accept the insult.”

Art smiles at Paul and his soft sideway glance. He slides his arm to politely reach for Penny’s waist, and quietly they follow the star couple into a darkened room. The success, the respect, the stardom, the most beautiful girl on earth in his arms; in spring 1980, everything seems to be going Paul Simon’s way.

***

A few months prior to that, the world was over. The cloud was falling down, and in the morning, it died. The lakes and the ponds and the rivers that were once solid and strong, cried and gushed coldly under the pale, sick grey sky.

Or it’s really just a winter’s end. But for Art, the world might as well be over.

Carrie came home. Art didn’t need to ask questions; he knew this situation too well. And what he also knew was that this whole thing with Paul and Carrie wasn’t trivial. Their feelings for each other wasn’t trivial. It was like with Kathy—Paul was absolutely, hopelessly, swimming-across-the-ocean smitten by Carrie, Art could see it. He could see it from way back then, when they were at the beginning, and still as they fell apart. And he knew that, in spite of Paul’s acceptance to the fact, his separation with Carrie was hurtful. He simply held it in. And why? Oh, Artie knew why. Because of him. He was in crazy state of mind, highly volatile. If Paul wasn’t solid as rock, both of them would crumble. No, Paul was taking the responsibility to be strong so Artie, in case of his return, had somewhere sturdy to lean on. _When_ he came back. He did come back. And Paul was all over him, drying his tears before it was even thought of.

Artie left the apartment that evening—the apartment that, for a brief moment, could’ve been his home. He looked at the ivory bricks with sadness so deep, it could bring that building to tears. So Artie looked away. He looked away and started walking.

The shoes that he was wearing were dark blue. His socks were black. He couldn’t see them under his jeans. He forgot his coat. He’s wearing the spare sweater—it’s deep teal, and Paul had one with this colour, too. The clothes from the day before was in Paul’s laundry basket. He forgot to take it. Paul would have to wash it in that little laundry room that had secret exit to a kitchen filled with drinks and weeds, and the crackhead who ran the place.

Lorne. Maybe Paul’s right; talking about this to someone _would_ help. Art had no one now; all he had was himself, so all he could do was to walk away from everything, feed his brain with trivial thoughts to focus on, such as the colour of his pants, so he would forget, for a moment, why the world ended. But if he had someone to take at least part of the explosion of words in his head…

Who, then? Who’s his best friend? Paul. _Not_ Paul. Surely, he had other friends… Jack? Jack Nicholson? Maybe not a good idea… That guy lived in the middle of media. Sandy. Of course, Sandy. He should go to Columbia, right now. Wait, no, they’re no longer Columbia roommates. Where’s Sandy now? Art should get him on the phone, immediately. He had the number in his apartment—he’d written it down and stuck it on the wall as one of his emergency contacts. His apartment’s just across the park. It’s close. It’s very close. He didn’t need coat to get there. Just a little trip through the heart of Central Park, and…

Art kept on walking.

***

It was the brick house that had been staring at him crying when he fell from his bike when he was a child. It saw the summer days that he spent giggling inside a brand-new inflatable splasher pool his father bought for a celebratory reason that he’d forgotten. It saw Paul, climbing the gate from the back alley and into his backyard, the closest shortcut to his bedroom windows, taking off his muddy shoes and jumping into the house uninvited to sing. It knew where this love began. It had been quietly watching it grow.

Art knocked on the door, then changed his mind mid-way. He bent over to get the spare key under the red mat and turned the lock. When he opened the door, he was greeted with a sleepy and annoyed face of an old woman. That face melted into surprise, decorated with a gasp, then disappeared into a hug.

The soft smell of spring flowers pervaded his nostrils. Art closed his eyes and lost himself in the familiar warmth, in the arms that had been loving him since before the world began and after the world ended. The way he wanted happiness to belong to no one else but Paul, these arms knew it—and they knew it for him.

He sobbed softly into the back of the shoulders of the arms that were holding him.

“I’m home, Mom.”

***

In other part of the world, Battle of Moscow was unfolding and there, in the little corner in a New York hospital, a blond baby was screaming for it to stop. On Wednesday morning 1941, Arthur Ira Garfunkel was born.

He was a darling child from the beginning, and from the day he first wrapped his hand around his mother’s finger, he’d never let go. ‘A classic Mama’s boy’, people said, but that never managed to get him away from his mother. Art followed the woman who shared name with the most loved flower on earth wherever she went: the grocery store, the synagogue, the deli, the park, the grandma’s house, the knitting store, the charity shop. His fingers, like when he was a baby, curled around her hand, or blouse, or skirt, and together they’d toddle along their little town, living day by day in constant presence of love

He’d gone far off. He’d gone too far away from home, and it still didn’t feel shameful to come back and beg for a slice of that affection.

His mother placed a brown mug in front of him. Art smiled at the drifting steam. It was his favourite mug growing up, he recalled. It used to be an ‘adult mug’ and he wasn’t allowed to use it when he was a kid. Art waited long until he proved to his mother that he’s responsible enough for that mug, and it was his since then. His mother kept it after all these years.

“Would you like something to eat?” his mother offered. She wandered around the kitchen, pulling open all doors—pantry, fridge, microwave… “I cooked some stew for dinner. Your father doesn’t eat that much anymore… Would you like some?”

Hesitantly, Artie nodded. “Yes, please.”

His mother smiled and petted him, then brought up the pot to the stove and turned it on. While she was looking for her best bowl—a red ceramic with white flowers pattern—Art sipped the content of his mug. It’s his mother’s signature hot chocolate—with _all_ cream and no ‘nonsense milk and what-have-you’. It tasted like hot ice cream. It was Paul’s favourite. This, and her pancakes.

“Now, young man,” his mother said while scooping a portion of beef stew into the red bowl, “why are you here? Not that I’m not happy that you’re here, of course. I’ve been worried sick, and I’m sure you know that, what with the thousands of phone calls I made that you never answered.”

Art looked down and smiled shyly. “I’m sorry.”

His mother shoved the mug in his hands away and dropped the bowl in front of him, then moved away again to get spoon and napkins. “Sorry! That’s all you have, that’s _always_ what you have, eh? Now, don’t you apologise to me no more, but tell me what’s going on.” She folded the napkin and placed it by the side of the bowl and put a silver spoon on top of it. Mrs. Garfunkel slumped to the closest seat, reaching to place her hand gently on top of Art’s, and looked at him with a worried face. “Are you alright, Arthur?”

Art looked into his bowl, as if it’s a magical crystal ball and this was a fortune teller’s caravan. The floating beef and cut-up celery sticks didn’t give him any guidance. “About what, Mom? About Laurie? I’m getting better.”

“Well, what about everything else, then?” She lifted her eyebrows and nodded at the stew. “Eat.”

Art obliged and lifted his spoon, digging into the steamy dish that smelled of meat and fat. The beef, cooked for hours in that pot, melted on his tongue with warm spices and fragrant celery. It’s a flavour that he hadn’t sampled in a very long time, yet still his body knew and, without hesitation, trusted itself in it.

Art looked around through the kitchen door. It’s not very late, but the house was already dark. Perhaps his parents had been sleeping early, lately. They’re not necessarily young anymore. Art dipped his spoon again. “Where’s Dad?”

“Asleep,” his mother answered. She reached up behind her and fetched a plate of bread. She smiled when Art’s eyes widened in happy surprise. “I know what you like, my boy. Now don’t you worry about your father. It’s just the two of us tonight, and you’d better let me take care of you.”

“Thank you, Mom.” He grabbed his mother’s hand and held it tight. He could feel the bread crumbs on her fingers, and it filled his heart with joy. He’s home now. The trail ended here.

His eyes began to tear up. But before his mother could stand up and hold him, Art quickly opened his mouth. “Mom, there’s something I want to tell you,” he said. His mother, slowly, retreated back to her seat. Art tried his best to keep his eyes trained on his mother’s although the pull from other places was strong. “There’s something I’d been wanting to tell you. Or I think… I want you to know _now._ I…” He choked on an unwanted sob. Art tried to shut it up. “I need you.”

He could see his mother was also fighting the urge to swallow him in a hug, but she was determined to stay in her seat and listen. Heavily, she nodded her head. “I’m here,” she said, her voice strained. Art was ready to break down. But he’d come this far. He’d come this far, and he loved her too much. She deserved his trust. She deserved his truth.

“Mom, I love Paul.” Art could see the corner of his mother’s lips twitched. Then, remembering the thousands of people in the world that he knew that were named Paul, he added, “Simon. Paul Simon. My friend from 3 blocks here.”

Mrs. Garfunkel frowned. “I know which Paul, Arthur.” She patted his hands, completing the pile of their hands on top of the white napkin. After a soft sigh, she fell silent, her face filled with thoughts. Art tried to be as still as possible, trying to find shelter in silence and shadow. His mother sighed again, heavier this time. Then, she nodded. “I know. I guess, I’ve always known. Or, I don’t know, but… I don’t know. It’s like I know, does that make sense?” Art nodded. Even though his mother wasn’t looking, he knew that she could feel him nodding. Just like she could feel how his heart had been screaming for one name all his life.

At length, she finally looked up, but her eyes failed to challenge Art’s. It fell on his neck. She said, “And, what should we do about this?”

“I don’t know, Mom.” He really didn’t. Art frowned. “Maybe… Maybe there’s nothing _to_ do. I… I’m gonna be meeting someone soon. A girl. That girl from the show, Laverne and Shirley, do you know that? My friend… My friend’s going to introduce me to her. I think it’s still a little soon, but I have to move on sometimes, right? So, yeah, Mom, there’s nothing to do. I just… I just want you to know.”

She sighed again, shaking her head. “I wish you didn’t do that. I’m sorry, Arthur, but I wish I could die never knowing that.” Feeling his hands retreating, she gripped them and stared sharply at Art—finally meeting his eyes. “No. Listen here, Arthur. I’m just saying that it would be a great convenience if I don’t know any of this. It would, and don’t you deny it. You think it’s easy to know this? What did _you_ feel when you first found out, huh? If you’re all breezy and happy about it, then I’m in the wrong. But if you weren’t, don’t judge me for feeling heavy-hearted.

“But that’s that. I know. And just because I wish I don’t, doesn’t mean I wish you’re not my son or anything like that.” She pulled Art’s hands, gave him a little smile and a little squeeze, then nodded. “Just… don’t tell your father, okay?”

Art nodded. “I won’t. And I’m sorry, Mom. I just wanted you to know.”

“That’s alright. I’m glad you trust me like that, Arthur.” She pulled one hand away and used it to pat Art on the cheek, her eyes softened. “Look at that. My angel baby. After almost 40 years without incident, finally giving me a headache.”

Art grinned. “There’s no such thing as a perfect son, Mom.”

“Aw, you’re always a little stupid, Arthur. You’re giving me a headache, but you _are_ perfect. Ask anyone. Ask…” She stopped. Then, she placed both hands to cup Art’s jaw and she stroked him gently. “Tell me, my boy. Does he know? Or is it something you’d been keeping with you for years?”

Art swallowed. “He knows, Mom.”

“And?”

He felt blood rushing to his head and he begged his face to not blush shamefully, to no avail. “And he loves me.”

His mother frowned. “Now, you two… Always plotting behind my back. You’d better not tell me if there’s anything in this house you two had stained…”

“No!” Art quickly shook his head. “No, Mom. Nowhere. Never.”

She shrugged. “Okay. I believe you. Now, what do you two wanna do? Don’t tell me you’re gonna tell this to one of your fancy magazines. Your father and I are gonna get beaten up.”

“No, no. We’re not gonna do anything like that. Besides, Paul is getting back together with Carrie, and I…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” She grabbed Art by the arm. “He _what?_ What about you?! No, this can’t do. I’m gonna go down there and talk some sense into that Simon boy. Everyone always told, he’s got a screw loose, but I wouldn’t listen. He’s good to my boy, I said. But not like this, no. I’m gonna bang that screw up his…”

“Mom, no! No, no, it’s fine. Don’t… do anything to Paul.” His mother opened her mouth again, but Art shook his head sternly. “No, Mom. He loves me. Is there _really_ anything more I can ask? Is there anything _you_ would ask?”

Mrs. Garfunkel looked at her middle son. Her children were all sweet-tempered, but he was always the sweetest among the three. He always smiled the widest, giggled the most earnest. She tried not to play favourite, but can anyone blame her for willing to slice up the earth just so she could offer one on a platter for this boy?

She stood up and wrapped his head in her arms. She wished she could shelter him like this forever, this gentle little boy, but the world owned him now. How many people were touched by his ethereal voice? A million? More? None of them knew how to love this boy properly. Not even that stupid guitar-thumping boy from three blocks away.

But could it be that he might come close?

She let go of her son and nodded reluctantly. “You’re right,” she mumbled. With the sleeve of her pyjama, she wiped her tears. “You’re right. It’s not fair. It’s…” She collapsed to her chair. “None of this is fair.”

Art shook his head weakly. “No, it’s not, Mom.”

She sighed loudly. Then, after the air left her lungs, it’s as if the little breakdown never happened. She turned her head at Art again, more energetic this time. “So? What were you hoping when you came to see me?”

Art shrugged. “Nothing. I definitely wasn’t expecting you to come and scold Paul in his apartment, that’s for sure. I’m not 10 anymore, Mom.” She laughed. Art stroked her arm, his fingers were still gripping her. Her gaze softened at the sight. The way his fingers circled, he hadn’t changed from that early Wednesday morning when he was born. His little squeaking, his little squirming—he was a nervous child, but he was the sweetest child there was and ever could be. She wished he’d never let go. “I just want to be happy, I guess. You make me happy, Mom.”

Mrs. Garfunkel hid her face behind the shelter of her palm, and she began to cry. She cried silently, invisibly. But, Art, too, knew. He knew her tears, her thoughts. She’s a home he would never lose.

“Mom,” he whispered. He bent over to kiss his mother on her wet cheeks. “I’m gonna go home.”

She shook her head. “No. No, no, my boy. You stay for the night.”

Art smiled reassuringly. “I’m sorry, Mom. I really need some time alone. I promise I’ll take your call the next time.” She didn’t reply, only looking at the half-emptied bowl of stew on the table. “I love you.”

She nodded. “And don’t you even think about washing those dishes. Leave them be.”

Art smiled again and gave one more hug for his mother before helping her out of the chair. Arm in arm, they walked towards the front door. She gave him a big, wet kiss and a big, warm hug in the porch, and he left with a small smile and a small wave.

He walked through the cold night with the image of his father, standing in stunned silence in the kitchen doorway with disgusted eyes, swimming in his head.

***

The night ends with a big round of applause. The small Carrie was quick to get swallowed by her adoring crowd, and Paul got sucked alongside of her. Art stands with Penny, smiling politely at each other, and opens small conversations with generic topic. Oh, you’re best friend with Carrie? _And_ Lorne? It’s a surprise we don’t meet each other sooner, considering how those two are very close to my Paul. Yeah, it’s great to finally see you, too.

After a while, Paul managed to slip out of the mass. He exhales in relief when he finds Art and Penny, then quickly downs two glasses of champagne. Penny laughs. “Thought you, of all people, would’ve gotten used to huge crowd like this.”

Paul laughs. “No, no. I was usually protected by the existence of the stage.”

“Not a party boy! Now I wonder how you manage Carrie!”

Paul grins and shrugs. “There are ways.” He plucks another glass of champagne, then addresses Art. “Speaking of parties. Art, Carrie’s throwing one in my apartment. Lorne and Penny are gonna be there. Wanna come?”

“Oh.” Of course, Lorne’s gonna be there. That’s practically _his_ apartment, too. Well, that was supposed to be _Art’s_ apartment, too, now, wasn’t it? Is it how it’s gonna be now? He’s expected to return to the place where his future was snatched from him? He’s supposed to endure that? Art shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

Paul frowns. “I haven’t told you _when._ ”

“I know.” Art nods. He smiles apologetically at Penny, briefly, then drinks his champagne and returns to Paul. “But I’m gonna walk across Europe starting tomorrow.”


	9. Why Summer Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul gets a call.

Paul falls back and knocks his head on the floor—the sound of the bump was nasty. He yelps and groans, but ultimately laughs and springs back, pulling the attacker into a big hug. “That hurts! God, you’re getting so strong. What’s your mother been feeding you?”

Harper giggles and tightens his wrap around his father. “Chocolate and cake.”

“Oh, I see. Then, I guess to keep myself safe, I shouldn’t give you any of that today.”

“I mean, spinach and beans!”

She still laughs that way, Peggy—breathy, loud and quick, sharp. She bends down to commends her son’s cunningness and deceit, telling him how much he’s like his father. Harper stops to consider whether that’s true, and while he's doing his thinking, Paul nods to Peggy. “Thanks for dropping him. Wanna get in? Grab a coffee or anything else you like?”

Peggy flashes a cheeky grin. “Can I get your Mantle-autographed baseball?”

Paul laughs. “I was actually thinking more like bananas or something, but that’s just mean.” He tilts his head in inviting gesture, offering her a friendly smile. “Come on. Just a cup. I have eclairs.”

“Ooh, I wouldn’t say no to eclairs.” Peggy lets herself in with eager smile. Paul closes the door behind him and watches as the two Harpers make their way to the kitchen. It's a strange feeling, watching them. Strange, and sad. They're a family he created and is no longer a part of. But Peggy turns around and her smile puts him at ease. It always does, when she's not married to him. Paul likes Peggy when they're not married. “But why do you have eclairs at home? Did you just throw a tea party?”

“Yes, because your ex-husband is an 80-year-old woman.” Peggy giggles apologetically and Paul shakes his head. “No, no. That’s from Carrie. She has this little bakery that she really likes in New Jersey, and,” Paul paused to carefully pat Harper, who's sitting on the high kitchen stool, next to Peggy’s, “had this delivered this morning because you two are coming.”

“Oh, that’s nice of her,” Peggy remarks, taking her seat. She pats Harper on the back, whispering something about doing his homeworks. She mumbles secretly to Paul. “He hasn’t done his math. I’m telling you, he’s like an eel around math homeworks, it’s like it’s not enjoyable or something!” She quickly grins when Harper raises his face with a warning look. Peggy looks to Paul. “You said Carrie’s out until tomorrow? Are you gonna be alright on your own?”

“Peggy, this is not the first time you’re leaving Harper with me, just the two of us. He always came back in whole, didn’t he? Hey, buddy, all your head’s still on your neck? Show Mommy.”

“Way to ensure me, Paul,” Peggy grunts, but she giggles.

“Hey, I’m a good father, okay? You know what? If you’re that concerned, I can get Eddie to stay in with me. He’s got time off on weekends.”

Peggy shakes her head. “Oh, Paul, won’t you let that boy date a girl for once?”

“Wait a minute… _Eddie has life?_ Alright. Well, Lorne’s gonna be here in the afternoon, and Eddie _is_ going to spend Sunday here. Oh! Champ, wanna go pick up Uncle Lorne in his studio, then have dinner in that place with red jukebox that you like?”

Harper bounces on his feet. “Can I get the milkshake, too?”

“Yes, but only one glass. Daddy doesn’t want another accident in his car, okay?” Harper grins and nods. “Good. Now, would you be able to finish all your homeworks before that? It’s gonna be a busy afternoon, and you know we have game on Sunday, so it has to be now.”

Harper yells, “DEAL!” then quickly turns to get his backpack. Peggy smiles at him, busy taking out his pencils and his books—the rash way that he moves is just like Paul. She can’t get the five years back, she knows. But then again, it’s not the most horrible experience. Paul’s a kind man. Even after all that, he remains kind. This whole thing isn’t very hard.

Paul wanders around the kitchen, gets himself busy with the coffee maker. Eddie gave him the blend last week. ‘A belated coming-out present’, he said. Paul smacked his head with rolled-up magazine in reply. While the coffee machine works, filling the kitchen with bold smell of freshly-ground coffee beans, Paul sets to find a white box and takes it to the kitchen counter. He presents it to the eager Peggy and Harper, lifting the lid to reveal the pastries inside, black and shiny and smelling like toothache. Paul points at the ones with green-ish chopped nuts sprinkle. “Carrie said the pistachio one is the best, but I say, why bother with nuts if you can get caramel?”

“Tempting. What do you think, Harper?” 

Harper shrugs. “I don’t want nuts. You take it, Mom.”

Paul smiles at the sight of the two of them seriously discussing the contents of each éclair, consulting Paul for information, before agreeing on caramel cream for the boy, the pistachio for the mother, and the whatever for the father. “Daddy’s got the whatever? Oh, that’s nice.” He returns to the coffee pot and pours the content into two mugs, setting one for Peggy and one for himself, then off to get Harper a glass of chocolate milk from the fridge. They all scrutinise their beverage and pastry for a while, then Paul nods at Peggy. “So, you’re heading anywhere today?”

“Mm-hm. Dentist appointment.” Which is Paul and Peggy’s agreed term for ‘dating with a dentist’. Peggy licks the cream off her fingers, humming cheerfully at the half-eaten pastry. “What about you? What do you have planned for the boys-night?”

“Oh, you know. Whatever Harper wants after homeworks, game on Sunday…”

Harper jumps in his seat. “We’re going to catch a game?! Which game? Which game?!”

Paul slaps three tickets on the kitchen counter, and Harper squeals in delight. He holds the tickets in front of his face, grinning from ear to ear. Then, he looks at Paul. “Is Uncle Lorne coming with us, too?”

“What? No! That one’s for Uncle Eddie! Why? Why do you like Lorne so much?”

Harper grins widely but not answering, all of his focus is already used to marvel at the tickets. He only briefly looks up when the kitchen phone rings. Paul leaves the two of them to take the call. “Paul Simon.”

“Don’t you touch my son ever again, you fag.”

The line ends.

***

The phone fell. The sound of it hitting the floor seems to have come from faraway. Peggy and Harper both direct their attention to the noise. They find Paul standing by the fallen phone with eyes wide, face white as sheet, his left hand covering his mouth. Peggy recognised the tearing-up eyes and quickly stands up. “Paul, what’s happened?”

Paul looks at Peggy, side by side with his son, sitting there so innocently, swinging his legs and holding tickets to a ballgame. It’s a picture that should’ve lasted forever, but here they are, a temporary portrait in his kitchen. Still, it brings smile on his face. Harper is so precious and Peggy is so kind. Paul trusted his life in her hands, once, because of this kindness. Their marriage was built out of that: not love, but kindness. And it’s fine. You can’t get greedy with happiness.

“Paul…”

Paul shakes his head, pulling his lips into a smile. “It’s nothing.” He picks up the phone, placed it back to the cradle, then returns to his little family. Paul leans to kiss Harper on the top of his head, then exhales softly. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to calm himself. His stomach is aching. It’s like it’s being twisted from the inside. If he doesn’t try hard, he would definitely throw up all over Harper’s notebook.

Peggy, across the kitchen counter, has a measuring look on her face—the look she used to plaster when Paul offered her his works to analyse. Her head’s tilted and her brows are knitted in the middle of her forehead, and after a while, she walks up to Paul and leads him away from Harper. She speaks in whisper. “Paul, I’ve never said this in our marriage and I think that’s one of the reasons why it fell apart… But I wish you could tell me something. Not the whole thing, just something. I’m not trying to probe into your personal affairs, I’m just worried. Is it really that unfathomable to do? I don’t think a wife should’ve begged for minimal communication from her husband.” She sighs and strokes Paul’s arm gently. “I know that phone call wasn’t nothing. Can’t I _help_ you? Won’t you allow me to just comfort you, somehow?”

Paul stands in stunned silence for a moment. Peggy was right. She wasn’t supposed to beg. All through their marriage days, he was being a hormonal teenager with acne problem, refusing to say a word to his mother as if it’s an absolute fact that she wouldn’t understand. In the end, he suffered alone, and she, too suffered from his rejection. No, he shouldn’t have gotten married when he was still in the mood for being a brat. Paul takes Peggy’s hands and nods quietly. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry for that. You’re right. That wasn’t fair.”

She shrugs. “So who was that?”

Paul’s eyes dart towards the phone carefully, as if it’s gonna ring again. “Someone from the past, I guess.”

Peggy lifts her eyebrows, intrigued. “Like an ex-girlfriend?”

He considers the question. “Close. The father.”

“Whoa, scary! What did you do?”

Paul grins. “Nothing you can consider a bedtime story.”

Peggy narrows her eyes. “Alright, if you’re sure he’s not gonna hunt you down and kick your ass while Harper’s here…”

“Yeah, don’t be so sure about that, Peg.”

She laughs loudly. “Oh, thank you for that, now I’m definitely feeling secure about leaving my only boy here. Okay, you know what? Why don’t we wreck Eddie’s life and give him a call? It's too late for him to find peace anyway. I think I’ll just call him for you. It will sound more urgent that way.”

“Deceptive. I’m impressed.” He shakes his head. “No, no, I’ll call him. I know how to make it sound urgent. And, really, I’m fine. Go home and get ready for your… dentist appointment.”

Peggy grins and winks, then takes her leave. She stops to chat with Harper while Paul makes up Eddie’s number on the phone. Paul smiles at the sound of her loudly trying to help Harper with math problems, thinking about an idiot who once decided to teach it. The ringing takes time before it eventually stops and Paul can hear Eddie’s voice picking up. He mutters, “Eddie, his father knows.”

***

Peggy left after another eclair, and Eddie came a couple hours later to bring lunch of fried chickens and chips and juice. With Harper around, the two of them are free to behave like school kids again and exclusively eat chicken nuggets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Who needs diet plans anyway?

Eddie knows Paul is going mad with nerves, but he knows how to do this: spend the day cheerfully with Harper, and that’s that; other things, it should be talked about later on. And it’s not very difficult to enjoy the day, anyway. It’s a bright day outside. They set off to the park to hit balls and run around. Eddie said don’t, but sometimes Paul would throw the ball to scare the birds. Harper was chased by a dog at one point, and while Paul ran to save his son and angrily argued with the mutt, Eddie looked for its owner, settling the matter more decently and quickly. After less than half an hour outside, both father and son were already covered in mud.

“How did you two do it? We went to the same park!” The mini combo just grinned while they made their way back, forced to submit to early return due to their unseemly appearance.

As promised, they drive to pick up Lorne in his studio. Harper squeals when he spots Lorne and runs across the set, nearly ruining thousands of dollars worth of camera. Paul eyes them suspiciously, still wondering what Lorne had been doing when he’s not looking that get Harper to like him so much. For Eddie, it’s not very difficult to understand: Lorne knows how to talk to _everyone_ —Paul included, little Harper included. Eddie listens to their loud chatters all the way to and through dinner; firetrucks, imaginary fights, bicycle accidents… Somehow hanging out with an 8-year-old boy doesn’t seem to be that much different from hanging out with boys of his peers. Maybe they really _don’t_ grow up.

After Harper was all tucked in the bed, Eddie, who’d been waiting very patiently, grabs Paul by the collar and drags him to the living room. Lorne’s already waiting, cross-legged, flaunting a bottle of brandy in his hand. Paul glares at him and points, “No. No heavy drinking when my son’s around.”

“Aw, come on, you’ve been sober for far too long, it’s getting boring. Come on! Where’s the fighting-trash-can Paul? The jumping-into-duck-pond Paul? Know what? Let’s get high and pull out sobbing-because-he-thought-his-head-is-gone Paul!” Paul winces, so Lorne pats the seat next to him. “Okay, just one glass. I have a feeling that this is drinking sort of night. Why did you call Eddie? I’m not supposed to look at you twice until Sunday. Seriously, Simons, it’s like having double vision! You guys are driving me mad.”

Lorne was anticipating rebuttal that goes along ‘well, you’re driving _me_ mad’, but Paul just slumps in the armchair, looking like he’s about to crack. Eddie quickly shoves a glass to Lorne, who quickly fills it with the glossy brandy and hands it over to Paul, who doesn’t move. Lorne shrieks. “Okay, this freaks me out. Eddie, alcohol and stupid jokes are not working. What’s _really_ going on?”

Eddie sighs. “Lorne, Artie’s father found out.” He sneaks a sideway glance towards Paul, who refused to look alive. “And I don’t think he takes it well. Paul, how did it happen?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Peggy just came with Harper, then there’s a phone call, and there’s him,” Paul frowns. “Well, let’s just say there was a one-liner exchange that doesn’t do well in lifting my spirit.”

Lorne and Eddie share a concerned look. This thing's bound to happen, they know, but it still feels a little surreal that it’s actually happening. Suddenly, their minds go to the worst-case scenarios: things got recklessly disseminated, the two of them got beaten up, their parents’ houses got egged… Eddie clears his throat. “Paul, what are you gonna do?”

“Die, maybe,” he mutters. Paul looks up to the ceilings, looking for meteor to hit, but finding none. His eyebrows twitch. He has to do something, doesn’t he? He should find Art, maybe. The last time he saw Art was the night of Carrie’s premiere. He didn’t ask further about Art’s plan to walk across Europe, but if that’s happening, he doesn’t really have any way to consult Art about this. Should he really do anything, though? If he doesn’t, maybe it’ll go away?

Or maybe he should just never talk to Art ever again.

“I’m gonna go there,” he decided.

Paul stands up so abruptly, it startles Lorne and Eddie. Eddie frowns. “You’re going to go _where_?”

“Art’s house.” He walks quickly to find his car key in a bowl nearby, sorting through what sounds like a French turnkey's pocket. “Take care of Harper for a couple hours, will you? Oh, and don’t tell this to Peggy. She’ll get wild. God, I’m a bad father.”

“Holy shit.” Lorne slaps his mouth and repeats it again, in lower voice this time. He shakes his head. “No, man. As your valued advisor, I should advise you to not do that. It’s not only that it’s insane, it’s _freaking insane._ ”

Eddie nods like a toy dog on a dashboard. “Yeah, Paul. If he doesn’t like this situation, things can get ugly.”

“Yeah, what Eddie said. I mean, we _love_ it because it’s hilarious, and that’s discussion for another day... But it’s not gonna be breezy like when you told us. Don’t fucking go, man. I kinda want you alive and rule over the world and make dudes marrying dudes completely legal and not weird. Hail King Simon.”

Paul waves his hand dismissively. “Listen, Lorne? I’ll groan and make snappy comments at your disgusting jokes when I return, okay? Now do me a favour and be as quiet as you can? My son’s sleeping.”

“But—“ Lorne whimpers, his shoulders collapsing, “but Lady-King Garfunkel!”

Paul throws him an annoyed but amused look. He scoffs and finally gives in to a smirk. “Yeah, okay, that’s incredibly disturbing,” he said, giggling a little. He takes his jacket off the rack and looks at Eddie, whose face is crunched in worries, then holds up his hand in a farewell.

Paul closed the door and runs through the hall, calming down the painful stab in his stomach while waiting for the lift to come.


	10. Why Silence Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul meets The Garfunkels.

Driving is such a bad idea. Paul’s hands are trembling like a dog high in caffeine and he keeps on seeing flashes. He keeps on punching himself in the guts to fight the aching from inside, as if in a boxing match with his internal organs. Why does he keep on picking fights? No idea. He probably has a penchant for getting battered. Could be good, considering he might get some after he reaches his destination.

The traffic is busy, it being Saturday night and New York. But after a few turns, Paul finds himself in quiet residential area, with its flickering streetlights and bright golden lamps from the rowhouses. The timing allows Paul to get parking spot of his choice, so he stops a block away from Art’s old brick house. He checks the time on his watch. Harper didn’t get his nap today, so he slept a little early. Right now, it’s not too late for a very late house visit. The Garfunkels might still be awake, enjoying the last cup of tea before going to bed. Paul doesn’t recall them being a late-sleeper at all. Even the brothers aren’t much of an all-nighter either, except for Jerry, perhaps. Art generally gets sleepy at 8, like babies. So maybe ‘baby’ is a pretty sensible petname for him…

Yeah, this is definitely _not_ the time to consider that.

After a couple of minutes walking, Paul finds the old familiar door. Odd how today that usually-welcoming view seems ominous. Paul’s hands still won’t stop trembling, so he knocks with what he has. He waits a while, shifting his weight from side to side. His stomach hurts so much, he begins to think that he’s having contractions. No, he _can’t_ give birth, he’s a guy. That’s the problem. That’s always the problem. He can hear an indistinct shuffling from behind the door, and from the silhouette, he guesses, rightly, that he’s about to face Mrs. Garfunkel.

Under her wispy curls, Mrs. Garfunkel’s face makes a surprised expression. “Paul. What are you doing here?” She quickly glances behind her shoulder, then back to Paul. Her smile is a little nervous. “You know Artie doesn’t live here anymore, do you?”

Paul chuckles a little and nods. “Yes, Mrs. Garfunkel. I’m actually here to talk to Mr. Garfunkel. I know it’s late, but…”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, young man.”

“Um…” Paul looks down. “Why? Is he… Is he asleep?”

Mrs. Garfunkel sighs. “Listen, Paul, I have an inkling of what you’re gonna do, and I’m telling you…”

“What is he doing here?”

Mrs. Garfunkel starts and turns her head. Her husband is standing a few paces away, his eyes wide and his lips tremble in rage. Mrs. Garfunkel pushes Paul away from the door, hissing, “I think you’d better leave, Paul.”

Her voice was swallowed by another loud question from Mr. Garfunkel: “What is _he_ doing here?”

Paul finds his voice when he’s probably be better off without it. “Mr. Garfunkel, I think…”

“Rose, get the gun.”

Mrs. Garfunkel quickly shifts to face her husband, shielding Paul at the doorway. She groans, “For God’s sake, Jack, that’s stupid, even for you. Listen to yourself! People would think you’re in a movie or something.”

“HE,” the man storms forward, like an enraged soldier in winning battle, “IS _NOT_ WELCOMED IN MY HOME! NOT AS LONG AS I LIVE! I heard you, Rose. I heard the two of you that night. What he said… about this… this…” Mr. Garfunkel glares at Paul, his eyes seething with hate. He points his finger angrily. “I know what you did to my son. I know what you turned him into. And if I see you with him again, by God, I will… ROSE, GET OUT OF THE WAY!”

But Mrs. Garfunkel shoves her husband with all her might, making him stumble backwards, wobbling. “That’s enough of you. This is _not_ his fault. This is no one’s fault!”

“HOW IS IT NO ONE’S FAULT?! OUR SON’S A FAG!”

“SO WHAT IF HE IS!?” Mrs. Garfunkel thunders. She stomps forward, somehow looking larger than the house itself, her shadow casting a monstrous shade over her taller husband. “Is he not your son anymore, then?! Is that it?! Because if that’s what you think, then I _will_ get that gun, and I’m gonna shoot _you_ dead! I’ll protect my son even from you!”

“Well he’d better… He…” His mouth opens and closes, making noises without words. “Rose, he can’t be that… He just _can’t._ ” His eyes fly towards Paul again. “And if it’s not for him, he would never…”

Carefully, Mrs. Garfunkel speaks in calming voice; the kind that she used to get Artie out of bed when he’s sulking from rough-housing Jules or food-stealing Jerry. “Jack, have a heart. It’s not their plan that things go this way. Do you think this boy came here because he enjoys being yelled at?” She shakes her head sadly. “And if you were there that night, Jack, you would’ve seen him. You would’ve seen how hurt he was. Our boy’s wounded by this, too, Jack. Don’t you care?”

Mr. Garfunkel looks down, like a child being scolded. With trembling voice, he growls lowly, “I can’t accept this. I will never.”

“You don’t have to agree with any of this. But you don’t have to make it more difficult for them.” She gently puts her hands on his arms, squeezing him sternly. “Jack, did you love me when you married me?”

He frowns and looks at his wife, confused. “Of course, Rose.”

“And aren’t you lucky to be able to do that?” she pushed. Mr. Garfunkel’s frown deepens, his face scrunched with running thoughts. “But they can’t, Jack. They had to see each other marrying someone else, never have a chance to… Don’t you think that’s hard? Do you think you, his father, should make it harder?”

Mr. Garfunkel’s eyes tear up and, again, he looks away. For a moment, he thinks about his golden-haired little boy so fondly, breaking his own heart. But soon his face hardens and he shakes his head, pushing away any affection out of his mind. “No.” He glares at Paul again, his face pulled by hate. “I’ll let you off this time, but you—you should _never_ see him again. Do not talk to him, do not touch him, don’t even breathe the same air as he.”

“I can’t do that.”

Now Mrs. Garfunkel also glares at Paul, mouthing ‘stupid boy’ and wishing that Paul is not very stupid at all. It’s a ship that’s long sailed. Mr. Garfunkel perks up again. His eyes narrow. “What?” he hisses, menacingly. “What did you say?”

“I can’t do that,” Paul repeats like a school boy giving unwanted answer. His shoulders tensed and he wonders why his mouth makes words when his brain doesn’t work. Then brainless Paul makes a brainless statement: “I’d rather die.”

Mr. Garfunkel pushes his wife’s hands away angrily, stomping with a reaching arm towards Paul. It’s strange, Paul thinks, the way tall people prance. He thinks there should’ve been no way for them to walk without losing their balance, but there they are; sturdy as a rock. He wonders if falling is really more painful when you’re further from the ground. Probably he should ask Art. Hey Art, does it hurt more to fall _now_ than it was when you’re 13? He was about to construct the imagined reply when he felt a tug on his shirt and a fist on his cheek.

The world slows down.

His tongue tastes of blood.

Paul simply blinks.

“Alright, that’s enough of you! Jack!” Mrs. Garfunkel pulls her husband, then shoves him into the house, glaring angrily. She barks, “You’ve got one hit, that’s enough. Wait until I tell your sons what you did! No, _wait until I tell Belle what you did!_ ”

He throws an angry glare, but Mr. Garfunkel soon slumps weakly against the wall. “Not Belle…” he mumbles.

Mrs. Garfunkel puts her hands on her hips. “Well, you should’ve thought that before you punched her son. God, Jack, this boy’s almost like _your_ son. He spent half his life under your roof, back in the day, for goodness sake!”

Mr. Garfunkel grunts. “He’s not my son,” he said. But even Paul can sense his anger’s evaporating. Mr. Garfunkel throws one last look at Paul and scowls. “Fine. You do what you want, but I mean it: I don’t want you to _ever_ set foot in my house for as long as I live. Do you understand? _Never._ ”

With that, he turns around and stomps to his bedroom, leaving his words unanswered. Mrs. Garfunkel watches as he leaves, then sighs heavily when she hears a door closing. She turns to Paul with knitted eyebrows. “Now, that was quite a stupid thing to do, wasn’t it?”

Paul looks down. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Garfunkel.”

“Thought he’s just going to listen quietly while you yap about what heart-felt confession you’ve got planned out?” She inspects Paul’s face with a frown, then shakes her head. “That’s a pretty good blow, wasn’t it? Really, Paul. Really, really stupid. What were you thinking? What exactly did you wanna say to him, then? Not to ask for our blessing, I reckon?"

Paul shrugs. “Just that,” he said. “I really came here to say that. I can’t do that.” He frowns, realising the gravity of his stupidity. He really wasn’t planning on saying anything else. Maybe a little more polished version of that, if he had chance to explain a little… But ultimately, that. And now that he’d said it out loud, Mrs. Garfunkel was right: that was really, really stupid.

She grumbles softly, then suddenly smacks Paul on the head. Paul looks at her bewildered, and Mrs. Garfunkel scrunches her face. “I’ve been wanting to do that,” she said. Then she gently pats Paul’s cheek. “Did you bring car? Go back there and wait for me. I’ll be with you in 5 minutes. Where’s your car?”

Paul points to his left, frowning. “Are we… Are we going somewhere?”

Mrs. Garfunkel scowls again. “Just do it. You always talk.”

Paul quickly nods and takes his flight. He heard the front door softly slammed, looks behind his shoulder, then sighs. He didn’t realise how his legs wished they weren’t his until he has to wobble away from the Garfunkel’s garden.

He did it. He faced Mr. Garfunkel. And there doesn’t seem to be much damage, other than probably his face, but no one cares about that anyway. Sure, he doesn’t do much talking either… And now that he thinks about it, if Mrs. Garfunkel wasn’t there to say nothing but common sense, he’d be dead by now. Or, more injured, probably. Sure, the gun’s pretty much just an empty threat—Mr. Garfunkel was never all that into violence, Paul knows—but probably a bit more beating… a lost tooth or a broken nose… What was he thinking? He wasn’t, that’s the problem.

Paul quickly finds his car and slips inside, turns on the heater because his body feels cold in spite of the warm weather. It’s June again—they’re approaching summer. Why do bad things happen almost exclusively in June? Hot days make people stupid. Paul bangs his head on the steering wheel. It still doesn’t seem real—him, in his old neighbourhood, going through that and is actually… okay. And he’s not even really sure what just happened. How did the Garfunkels know? The two of them mentioned something about ‘that night’. Then Artie surely once returned to tell them something? To Mrs. Garfunkel? He’s missing an episode here. But that definitely happened—he told his mother. Didn’t he think about telling Paul? Paul told _him_ about Eddie, because that’s manner. She’s best friend to his mother, for crying out loud; didn’t Art think of that? Sure, they aren’t exactly talking since that night, but just a quick call? A little whisper during their encounter in the premiere, maybe? Hey, Paul, so, I told my Mom about us, and Dad probably overheard us, I don’t know—but that happened, and I’m gonna go to Europe on my own, yay!

It was definitely over 5 minutes when Mrs. Garfunkel finally knocks on his car window. Paul opens the door from inside for her and she slides in with low grumble. Paul looks at her hands. She notices his gaze and shoves it his way. Paul smiles, taking the steaming cup of hot chocolate. “You never change, Mrs. Garfunkel.”

“It’s too late for me,” she said, shaking her head. She raises her other hand and presses to Paul’s cheek a small bundle of ice wrapped in brown cloth. Paul winces a little, but he stays still. Mrs. Garfunkel was never known for gentle treatment.

“So,” she begins, “you’re stupid.”

Paul laughs. “I’m glad you’ve ever thought otherwise. Mrs. Garfunkel, did Artie…”

She nods, cutting him off. “He told me, boy. Some months ago. I told him not to tell his father, didn’t know that he was listening… Just rotten luck, I guess.” She shakes her head weakly. “Jack’s never said a word, so I had no idea. I asked him just now. He said he saw an old paper this morning and saw the two of you going to watch a movie with these two girls… He said he wasn’t going to say anything, but when he saw that, he got mad. So he called you, huh?” Paul nods. Mrs. Garfunkel sighs and retreats to her seat, letting go of the ice to nestle on Paul’s fist. “He told you to stay away from Arthur, and you think it’s a good idea to talk to him?”

“You know, Mrs. Garfunkel, I’m glad I came,” he said. Paul nods to himself. “I’m glad I’m the one who heard all that. Artie should never hear that. Not from his own father.” Paul snaps his eyes shut and leans back. He presses the ice to the side of his face and lets the biting cold fill his thoughts. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “I just had that phone call, and I thought…” He sighs. It’s too late to not say things now. It’s a mad night, might as well lean into it. “I thought about never talking to Artie again, and I lost it.”

“Oh my God,” he could hear her gasps; she brings her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God, you do love him, don’t you?”

Paul turns his head. Mrs. Garfunkel’s eyes are glistening under the low light of the night. He looks down and, after a long while, nods.

Mrs. Garfunkel looks at him and says nothing for a while. She wipes her hands on her skirt and tries to think of what to say. Everything happened in such suddenness, like avalanche, and while she—thinks—she handled it well enough, why, that’s just the sensible woman side of her. The other hysterical woman is screaming and confused and panicking. She opens her mouth, then closes it again and looks at Paul with an angry scowl. She hits him on the chest. “Then what are you doing with that little girl you’re with? What was that, huh? You’re toying with my baby?”

“Ow! No! I swear to God, I’m not!” Mrs. Garfunkel retreats her hands but her eyes are still narrowed. Paul mumbles, “Geez, you’re stronger than you look.” He rubs his hand over his chest. Mrs. Garfunkel can really resurrect the dead with this punch. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean that, I swear. And neither did he.” Paul sighs heavily and shakes his head. “I guess we really don’t know how to live alone, Mrs. Garfunkel. We want companionship. We can’t give that to each other, can we?”

He frowns. Paul puts down the ice pack. He rolls out the silver ring out of his left index finger and hands it to Mrs. Garfunkel, then offers her a little sad smile. “I mean, how would they pronounce us?”

She looks down to the little band in her hand, noticing how it softly trembles. Then, she clears her throat. “This for Artie?”

Paul shakes his head. “He’s already got one.”

“When?”

“11 years ago.”

Mrs. Garfunkel purses her lips and nods. “Well, I wouldn’t have given you my blessings anyway.” She returns the ring to Paul, squeezing his fingers before she retreats her hand. “Drink the chocolate, Paul. It’s not poisoned.”

Obligingly, Paul takes a tentative sip of the sweet-scented brown pool, and feels immediately relaxed. It’s the same old flavour—diabetes and obesity. Mrs. Garfunkel nods approvingly. “I’m not happy about this,” she began. “At least, I don’t think so. But then I thought about why. Because it means he’s different from other boys? My Arthur had always been different. Because it’s forbidden by everything I believe in? That could be it. And if that’s it, there’s nothing anyone can do. So, then I thought,” she sighs heavily, “whether it matters if I’m happy about it or not.” She shrugs. “It doesn’t. What matters is whether he’s happy or not. And if I really love him, I should be happy that he’s happy.” Then she covers her mouth with her trembling hands. She chokes on her words, sobbing, “And I do, Paul. I do love him. I love that boy so much.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul mumbles to his cup. “He should’ve been happier.”

Mrs. Garfunkel shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter. He’s happy that he loves you.” She stops and shudders. “That was the worst sentence I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”

Paul laughs. “I can top that.”

She lifts her eyebrow, challenging. “Try me.”

“Your son is a good kisser.”

“God, you really aim for the head, don’t you?” she yelps, hitting Paul on the head. He giggles, and eventually she does too. Mrs. Garfunkel lets out another long sigh. It’s that sort of night—the sort of night that’s filled with sighs. She looks ahead at the empty street. It was a much easier street to look at before she found out all this.

“I’ll talk to Jack,” she finally says. “He’s not going to change his mind, I know. But at least, he won’t do anything about it, I’ll make sure of that. And any time you need someone to talk to, you can give me a call, alright? Because I don’t think you should tell your mother. Do you have anyone to talk to?”

Paul nods. “I’ve got Eddie.”

“Ah, yes, Eddie.” She nods. “The nice Simon. I like him. I like your brother.”

“Of course you do. The second kids are the best, first ones are throw-aways.” Paul smiles when Mrs. Garfunkel laughs again. It’s a much lighter laughter now. Paul would sit there the entire night just to get her to laugh like that again. Artie would’ve appreciated that. He loves his mother so much, he would cut his own arms to make her happy.

He leans his head on the window, listening to the dying chuckles. He narrows his eyes so the light from the streetlamps forms a silhouette that’s almost like Artie. The golden hair, the swan-like neck, the graceful fingers, the very un-graceful walk. “How did you do it, Mrs. Garfunkel?” he mumbled. “How did you make something so perfect?”

She thought, she should’ve known: Since the day that they met, that’s the only way he’d ever seen Art. His voice is perfection, his smile is perfection, his oddity is perfection—Art had always been that for him. And this little boy had been fighting his way to that stage—for what? To do what she’d always wanted: for the world to recognise this perfection and admire him as such.

He’d done that. He’d done even more than a mother could.

Mrs. Garfunkel takes Paul’s hand between her palms. “I think you should go and talk to him about today. He needs to know.”

Paul nods. “I’ll try to find him,” he says. “I suppose he’d never sent you a postcard or anything I can use to get any idea where he is?”

She frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“He told me he was going to walk across Europe last month,” Paul answered. He hesitates. “Is he not?”

“What? No, he’s not! No, he’s going for a walk alright, but not _there._ No, he told me he’s going to visit his friend. What’s his name…” She taps her forehead, fishing for a clue. “What’s his name? Very tall, very smart, very handsome…”

“Art.”

She laughs. “Oh, shut your mouth!” Mrs. Garfunkel snaps her fingers victoriously. “Sandy. Sandy, his friend from Columbia. He’s in Harvard now. Smart, smart boy.”

“Oh. Sandy. Yeah, okay.” Paul scowls unhappily. “But why would he tell me that he was going to Europe?”

She shrugs. “Did you do something that upsets him?”

Paul shrugs back. “I got back together with Carrie Fisher. And I ate his pudding.”

“You and your smart mouth. One day you’ll really get in trouble because of that.”

“Is that day today?” Mrs. Garfunkel smacks him again and Paul giggles, nodding rapidly to stop her attack. “Okay, okay. I’ll find him. I… don’t know where Sandy lives. But I’ll find him. I’ll drive there on Monday.”

“Good,” she nods. Mrs. Garfunkel shifts in her seat, slightly turning towards the door. Paul quickly unlocks it. “I’ve been sitting with you long enough. I’ll let you get back to your place now. And I need sleep.” She stops before opening the door. “I bet Art has Sandy’s phone number in his apartment. You can go there and get it, give him a call before you go.”

“Oh.” Paul frowns. “I don’t know how to get into Art’s apartment, though.”

She nods. “Give me your phone number. I’ll ask Jules to get it for you.”

Paul quickly scribbles his number on a scrap of paper and hands it to Mrs. Garfunkel. She folds it neatly and hides it in her grip. “It’s good to know that you boys don’t share keys,” she comments. Mrs. Garfunkel slides out of Paul’s car and lowers herself, nodding. “And Paul? I know how the wedding should’ve gone.” She shrugs and smiles softly at him. “You’ve already chosen how, a long time ago. ‘I now pronounce you Simon & Garfunkel’.”

Paul laughs, nodding. “Yeah, that would be funny. Lorne would definitely get a kick out of it.”

“Well, _I_ think you should’ve thought of Jewish wedding in the first place. But no, you’ve been reading Bible and not marrying nice Jewish girl, haven’t you?” She nods, her expression sombre. “I know you two boys aren’t doing it together anymore, but if you can, do it. Go and sing together like you did before. And when people introduce the two of you as such, think of what I said. Every time, it’ll feel like it’s a wedding day, ain’t that nice? With the whole people coming to congratulate the two of you, happy to see you together?”

Paul smiles at her. “You sure you don’t want me to drop you?” She shakes her head. “Okay. Don’t forget your cup.”

“No, no. You hold on to it. That’s Artie’s favourite cup.” She reaches to stroke Paul’s cheek warmly, like a loving mother that she is. Paul leans into the gentleness, feeling so happy, he could cry. She smiles one last time. “Bring him home, Simon.”

Paul holds her hand and nods. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will y'all be mad if I add one more part in this series because this is getting soooooo long and I can't believe it's still in 1980??? THE OTHER PARTS SPAN MORE THAN A YEAR AT LEAST.


	11. Why Grass is Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art meets Sandy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a bit feverish, please spare me .-.
> 
> literally nothing happens here btw lol

Sue pokes her head through the door. Her husband’s hunching over the desk. He lifts his face up and smiles, though, when he heard the opening door. Sue smiles, too. “There’s a phone for you.”

He nods and makes his way to the phone. He whispers. “Who is this?”

“Right,” she stops before she left the room. “He said it’s Art’s brother?”

“Oh! Probably looking for his brother, finally,” He lifts his hand away from the transmitter and presses the phone to his ear. “Hello, which of Art’s brothers is this?”

There’s a small coughing from the phone. “Hi Sandy.”

And Sandy smiles. “Hello, Paul.”

***

The thing about Art and sulking is, he does that a lot and with dedication. When he was a child, his go-to move was nesting under blanket for hours, then went on to sporting silent treatment which would go on for days until his mother got mad and scolded him. When he got older, he realised that he had to change the way he sulks. In his 20’s, he alternated between constantly being high or refusing weeds altogether. But after his problems got too big for weeds, he returned to his old-time silence. Approaching his 40’s, which is now, it’s coupled with weirdly long walks.

This was how, at the edge of May, Mr. Sanford Greenberg found his old roommate in his living room.

Sue had let him in and called Sandy, who’s trying to decide which grad student should he call to help with his reading (his choices were the one with body odour or the one with disturbingly high-pitched squeak). When his wife announced the coming of his old friend, Sandy knew he didn’t have to be stuck with either. At the risk of not being able to consume any book for the day, he's going to spend the whole afternoon listening to a calming, silky voice of his bushy-headed best friend who referred to himself as 'the darkness'. What a dork.

Art quickly hugged him at sight. Sandy was surprised by the sudden collision, but he missed Art so all he did was laugh and pat Art on the back. “That’s a poor choice to greet an unprepared blind man.”

“Ah, you’re Sandy. You can handle it.” Art let go of his old friend and smiled broadly. Sandy was taller than he remembered, or probably he just stood up straighter than he did when they were roommates. His face was brighter, if that’s even possible—Art remembered Sandy as the happiest man alive, and it always showed. ‘I’m a blessed man,’ Sandy once said. He could talk about his helpful friends, his loving wife, his supporting teachers, but Art would say that he’s, most of all, blessed by that ability to be grateful.

Sandy led them back to the couch; he had his favourite spot, but Art could have it, he said, because he’s the guest of honour. His wife offered to get them drink, and Art refused but Sandy insisted on an iced tea. “Sue made the best iced tea,” he said. Art remembered, then agreed to a serving. After he heard Sue's footsteps disappearing, Sandy turned to face Art and offered him a warm smile. “So,” he began, “it’s been a while. You’re actually here! Did you actually walk all the way from New York? How long does that take?”

Art chuckled at the enthusiastic reception. “Several days. I actually got here a couple of days ago.”

The two of them exchanged pleasantries for a while. There’s a lot to catch up with: the studies, the tours, the marriages. They talked about their favourite topic: their time together in Columbia—the people and what became of them, making fun of the jerks now that both of them were incredibly successful and all… Sandy didn’t remember _all_ of them—because he’s Sandy, and Sandy doesn’t think badly of people—but Art practically had an enemy list that he’d remember for as long as he lives. He said so himself. Sandy laughed at that and said, “God, I wouldn’t wanna be the guy on top of that list of yours.”

And this made Artie stop talking for a while.

He cleared his throat nervously. “Speaking of Paul…”

Sue returned to the living room to invite Art for dinner. Art had an automated ‘no, thank you’ function for every invitation, but because he’d walked for about a week to see Sandy, it felt a little stupid to say that. Also, he didn’t want to leave just yet. So he accepted the invitation and smiled until Sue, again, disappeared to the kitchen.

Sandy called up his attention. “What about Paul?”

Art fidgeted in his seat. So what he thought when he walked down to Massachusetts were these: 1) Paul had one family member _and_ one friend, so he might want to even it out, 2) He’d thought about telling Sandy, flittingly, once, recently, 3) He’s making all of these up, and he really was just here to run away from everyone who knew him in New York. But Sandy’s here anyway, and on the phone, it sounded like he’s eager to see Art again. So, why not make those reasons real reasons?

“So, you remember Paul.” He’s really bad at this. How did he tell his mother? Oh, yeah, right, he just went straight ahead and told her that he was in love with Paul. How did Paul tell Eddie? Or Lorne? Probably the same way. Surely there’s another way that wouldn’t make this sound so sappy? What’s the poetic and intelligent way to tell your best friend that you’re in love with your other best friend? “So, you know we’ve been fucking since 1964?”

Iced tea burst out of Sandy’s nose.

“Holy shit!” He giggled uncontrollably, his hand desperately scrambled to find the coffee table to safe the tall glass from breaking. Art caught the dangling glass and set it down while Sandy caught on the deafening giggles. “What a way to finally break the news! God, I thought, if you’d ever tell me that, you’d go with something sentimental, like, I don’t know… Just _not that._ God, you’re…” He lost his words to another fit of laughter.

Art pouted and folded his arms. “Hey, I didn’t come here to get laughed at.” Then he paused, and, “Hold on a sec. You _knew?_ ”

Sandy shrugged, still attempting to stifle his giggles. “I mean, I never thought about you two _canoodling_ in our bedroom or anything… But, I don’t know. I just… know. You love him, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah…” Art recoiled a little. “But how did you know? Did you ever see anything? Hear anything? Did I ever accidentally tell you, or...”

He grinned broadly. He’s way too happy about this than people should’ve been in normal situation. “Okay, Art? You tried _so hard_ not to talk about him. That’s how I know.”

Art frowned. “But,” he said, slowly, “that doesn’t make any sense. I didn’t talk about Paul because I _didn’t_ want it to be apparent.”

“No, you’re being all ‘aw, I don’t wanna talk about Paul… OKAY’.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Think again.”

“Okay, I was.”

Sandy giggled again, then sighed loudly, relieved, as if it was _his_ secret that’s just been spilled. “You only do that when it’s about something you _really, really_ love and you’re desperate not to let anyone knows. Like that time when you secretly loved that weird salsa, but you had to hold it in because the whole fraternity hated it?” His hand reached out for his iced tea—laughing at Art tends to cause dehydration. Art watched until he finally found the glass, brought it closer, and took two large sips that brought the drink to its swift end. “You always waited until someone brought it up, and the moment someone did, you yelled the first and the loudest. Same goes with Paul. When no one talked about him, you're just waiting around until someone talked about him _then_ you can't stop talking about him. That,” Sandy giggled, "was endearing. Seriously. It warmed my heart."

Art winced, “If you knew, why didn’t you ever talk to me?”

“You’ve been fucking him for 16 years, why didn’t _you_ ever tell me?” Sandy returned the emptied glass to the table with his eyebrow lifted. “It’s not _my_ secret, Arthur. It’s yours to keep for as long as you want, and I want to respect your right to reserve that.” He paused for a while. “I actually thought you’d go on without ever telling me. I’m glad you did. You helped me loads back then, I want to help you, too.”

“Well, you’ve helped me a lot, too, Sandy.” Art patted him on the knee. “College wouldn’t have been as fun without you in my bedroom.”

“You see, if people heard you say that, they would think oddly of us.”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Art laughed. He leaned his head to the back of the couch, staring at the ceilings and feeling light. Sandy knew. He might’ve been a bit disappointed that the reaction wasn’t very dramatic, but it surely was so much easier than when he had to face long pauses with his mother.

Sandy cleared his throat. He smiled kindly. “So, how can I help you? Is that why you’re here? You wanna talk to me about it?”

Art shrugged. “No, not really. I think. I don’t know, I don’t think so. I just… walked here. I don’t know.”

“Ah, but you _do_ know. You just don’t like what you know. So let’s start from the beginning: what _recently_ happened?”

Art narrowed his eyes at Sandy, not sure whether he’s amused that his college best friend could read him so easily, or pissed that he couldn’t fool him and delay the story time. Sure, he did come here to talk, but it’s not very fun to talk about this thing. But he knew that when Sandy asked, there’s no way out of answering it. “Okay, Paul got back together with Carrie.”

Sandy nodded. “I don’t know who that is, but I’m sure it pissed you off.”

“Well, yeah,” Art whined and frowned. He sounded like a baby, it’s embarrassing. Somehow, he didn’t really care. It’s not like it’s the first time Sandy heard him being a baby. “Fisher. It's Carrie Fisher. You know, that movie star Carrie Fisher? The daughter of that movie star Debbie Reynolds? And that singer Eddie Fisher? Anyway, it's that Carrie. Star Wars, Princess Leia? Okay, I'm gonna stop talking about Carrie now. Yeah, so she and Paul were dating, right? Then they separated because she was getting hitched with a co-star, and all that... Yeah, so that's the brief history of Paul Simon and Carrie Fisher. Yeah, and they got back together, sometimes ago. So, yeah, I'm upset about that... But not only that, you know? I mean, it happened _right_ after he asked me to move in with him, _right after_ we met for the first time in months.”

“Boy, your relationship sounds healthy.”

“And then his friend, Lorne, _who kissed him by the way—ON THAT SAME NIGHT—_ and I’ve hinted _so many times_ that this might happen and Paul _totally_ ignored that—Lorne fixed me up with this girl, Penny, who’s very pretty and fun and I’m _really_ not in the mood for any of that because, obviously, I’m still upset about this whole thing with Paul that’s _just_ happened. I mean,” Art threw his hands in the air angrily, “can’t people see that? That’s pretty obvious, right?”

Sandy nodded, then smiled, then burst out laughing. “I forgot you’re such a little bitch.”

Art sulked into the corner of the couch. “You know, for such an intelligent person, you sure select the most plebeian of words,” he snarled.

“Right. Right. I’m a PhD candidate. I can do better. I meant to say, my subconscious had failed to regard the certitude that is your likeness to a miniature fille de joie.” Art told Sandy to shut up. Sandy did, for two seconds. Then he nodded thoughtfully. "Listen, I get it. I don't, because Sue is an absolute angel, but I can grasp that it must be difficult for you. Not only about loving Paul, but also being loved in return and having to always be the second choice to protect each other, having everything pulled out from under you, right after you managed to reach it. I get it." He smiled to comfort Art. "And you deserve to vent. And go ahead, vent, but don't forget the most important thing."

Art lifted an eyebrow. "And that is?"

"To bounce back," Sandy replied. He leaned back and sighed. “So, does anyone else know about this?”

Art took a moment to think of the answer. “My Mom.”

“God, you’re still a Momma’s boy.” He giggled again and Art began to regret his decision to come to Massachusetts after all. But finally, Sandy stopped laughing and his hand found its way to pat Art on the knee. “Is she alright with it?”

Art nodded. Then he tried to choke himself for doing that. “Yes,” he said quickly.

“You just nodded, didn’t you?”

“Saandyy…”

He laughed. “I’m just screwing you. Not the kind Paul does, of course…”

“SANDY.”

“I’m sorry.” Sandy was good with hiding his grin. He put on slightly more serious face. “Well, that’s good. That’s good that you have someone to talk to. And your mother, no less. That’s good, Artie. She loves you so much that it doesn’t matter.” Art nodded. He knew that, but he’s glad to hear it from someone else. It’s nice to know that his mother’s love for him was so apparent, even strangers can perceive it. “So, did Paul also tell his mother?”

“No, no. He doesn’t even know I told my Mom.”

Sandy frowned. “No? If you think that’s a good idea… Wait, does he know you’re here?”

Art shifts nervously. “No.”

“Ah,” he nodded, smiling triumphantly. Sandy snapped his fingers. “So, you’re here to tell him that he’s upsetting you, and you wish he’d somehow find out that you’re here and come here to pick you up and apologise.”

That was spot-on. That was so spot-on, Art had to cower and whimper like a wounded deer. “I don’t like talking to you.”

Sandy laughed loudly. “You’re impossible. Listen, Arthur? You can’t expect people to just work out magic, that’s not how it works. The world isn’t all that miraculous. Come on, be a good sport. You can sulk as long as you want here, but don’t expect him to come, okay? Besides, honestly, you’re being a child. You can’t punish him for getting back together with this Carrie person. Sure, it was ill-timed, but put yourself in his shoes!”

Art scoffs. “I’ll never get back together with Carrie.”

“Are you sure?”

“Okay, I would. But…” Art scratched his head, frustrated. Sandy always did that. He always _had_ to be sensible. Can’t he be stupid and support Art no matter what, as a friend, _for once?_ “But he should’ve waited a little, don’t you think? We _just_ met! After everything I’d been through—bad things, mind you—don’t you think he should, I don’t know, be nice to me? Or something like that?”

Sandy snickered. “Okay, Art? Artie? He’s not your Dad. He doesn’t have the responsibility of taking care of you. Besides, if he waited for you, he would _never_ get back with this girl.”

“Well, then, maybe he shouldn’t…”

“Oh, God, what I wouldn’t give to be able to lift the coffee table and smack your head with it.”

Eventually, even Art had to laugh. It started small, then it suddenly got louder. Sandy joined in, and for several minutes, they just laughed like that; as if they’re back to their first years and Art met Sandy for the first time in his bedroom, and right after his parents left, he offered Sandy his joints and they spent the afternoon giggling at their pillows that had suddenly turned into purple octopus. Art, out of breath, gasped, then sighed loudly, shaking his head. “God, you’re right. I did sound like a little bitch.”

He laughed a little more, then his shoulders slumped and he fell quiet. “You know, Carrie said he worried so much about me back then. I think he invested in me too much for a while that he forgot a little about her. I guess I broke them up, in a way.” Sandy nodded, waiting for Art to finish and Art smiled, knowing that Sandy knew that he wasn’t finished. “I know, I know. Paul loves Carrie. That sucks, and I don't think that demanding him to choose me instead of her is selfish, but I know it's less sensible. And Paul deserves to make his choice. I'm just upset that he didn't choose me. But you’re right. There’s no way in hell Paul would know that I’m even here. I told him I’m in Europe.”

Sandy gave Art a toothy grin. “Okay, so what are you gonna do now? Are you gonna go back?”

Art shrugged. “No. I’m staying, for a bit. I mean, I’m really not ready to face either Paul or Penny. God, I shouldn’t have agreed to meet her. Even _Lorne_ said it wasn’t wise.” He shook his head and laughed a little. “You should’ve been there, Sandy. If you were there, I wouldn’t be like this.”

“Ah, you’re being a brat again. I’m also not your Dad.” He smiled and reached to pat Art’s shoulder. “And you’re Art. You can get through this.”

Art frowned and slowly straightened his back. “Oh God. Dad.”

“What? What now?”

“Sandy,” Art looked at his friend in horror. “I forgot that my father knows.”

***

In spite of remembering that, Art decided not to do anything about it. Which Sandy said to be a very stupid idea, but he ultimately let Art do what he wanted. Sandy's like that. He treated Art like an adult. And when he did that, Art remembered that he _was_ an adult. Besides, it’s not like Art didn’t know that: he _should’ve_ told Paul all of these things, and he _should’ve_ talked to his father that night instead of slipping out of his house and ran… but he simply couldn’t. He couldn’t face his father, he couldn’t face Paul… He couldn’t face Penny, or Lorne who introduced them, or Eddie who knew that everything’s outrageously unfair, or Carrie who took away Paul from him… everyone. He couldn’t face New York. And he believed that he had the right to prepare himself until he’s ready. Besides, he’d waited for several weeks since he saw his father listening to him from the doorway, and nothing’s happened. So maybe that’s all there was: his father just knew, didn’t like it, never talked about it. Not like he ever talked about anything much with Art anyway.

So, in the meantime, he’s gonna heal with Sandy. Sandy’s fun. It’s nice talking with Sandy; Sandy was always very perceptive, very intelligent, and most of all, he told things as is. He didn’t beat around the bush to try to make Art feel good about crappy decisions he made; he told it to his face that he’s being stupid. It’s like Paul, back in the day. It’s like Paul, but without the singing-with-their-faces-touching-that-eventually-led-Art-astray. And much taller.

When Sandy’s busy, Art would walk around Cambridge and Boston. There were a lot of bookshops he could browse through, and he loved the seafood. It’s a breezy summer and he loved buying cannoli and eating it in the park while reading his books, singing a little, feeding the birds, sometimes being chased by some…

It’s a peaceful life.

Art didn’t want to live it alone.


	12. Why Art Is a Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone knocks on the door.

Sandy is leaving for library in the morning. Sue prepares a stack of French toasts with morning-time milk coffee for the two of them. While she pours over the coffee cream, Sandy smiles because he knows she’s about to start her habitual “the secret to French toasts” speech. By the time she’s done dusting the plate with cocoa powder, she’d have told him the whole ingredients, and when she drizzles honey on it, she’d be going through the secret technique. It’s been that way for years.

But this time, she stops at “the butter should…” and sits down with curious eyes. “Why are you smiling like that?”

Sandy shrugs. “Nothing,” he says. He lifts his fork and knife and makes a swift slice across the toast. And Sandy tried, but he couldn’t help it. The widest grin spreads across his face. “Just happy that the world is a miraculous place to be.”

***

Art doesn’t wake up late. It doesn’t matter how late he turns in, he always wakes up early. He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like many of his habits. Following Paul, thinking about Paul, obeying Paul, dreaming about Paul... He _does_ have other habits that are not Paul-related, and he likes none of them, too. This whole running away thing and sulking, for example. Sure, it’s nice that he sometimes wind up in new places as the result… but surely it would be fun if he can behave more maturely. Paul, for one, doesn’t run away and find his old roommate to complain about Art. Why can’t he be more like that? Just be cool, or something.

But Art is not cool. Art is… what?

The doorbell rings loudly, knocking him out of his self-deprecating moment. He frowns and grumbles, but slides out of his blanket anyway. Art is not cool. He is polite. He doesn’t like to keep people waiting. His mother said no: don't let them wait for more than three rings or three knocks; that's what good little boys do. God, he really is a big Momma's boy.

Art squints his eyes and looks through the peephole. He couldn’t see much, but he could see a floating corner of jacket’s hoodie. That doesn’t look like room service. “Um,” he says, a little scared because he's Artie and fear is his natural response to everything, “who is it?”

“YOUR DOOM.”

Art freezes at the door, his fingers circles the handle but are unmoving. They're shaking a little. He opens his mouth to reply and feels it dry like sandpaper. The sound of knocking blasts from the door, and the angry voice yells again. “OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR.”

Art quickly unlatches and opens all the locks and turns the handle. Sure enough, he finds Paul behind the door, glowering and as crimson as lobster bisque in the marketplace. Art opens his mouth to say… something, but before he could stutter on his greetings, Paul’s slapped him.

“Whoa.” Art stammers. “W-what was that? What did I do?”

“What you did,” Paul pushes past Art and kicks the door shut behind him, “was lying to me about going to Europe, running away to Boston, being fucking stupid and worrying the whole wide world, NOT GIVING ME EVEN ONE STUPID CALL ABOUT STUPID THINGS YOU DID…”

Art isn’t really sure what to say. He knows that he’s in the wrong, so he’d expected Paul to get mad, and he’s pretty entitled to be so. Art is quite used to get yelled at, too, especially by Paul, long since their teenage years. Is getting yelled-at by Paul another habit? That's a nice habit, since Paul should actually be there to yell at him. Paul doesn't really yell to people anymore, but he yells at Art. That's supposed to mean good, right? That he's special? Special enough to strike a very well-nurtured nerve. Oh, no one gets into Paul's nerves like Artie does, is that not true? Art stares at screaming Paul in observing silence. He knows exactly what Paul’s going to say, so it doesn’t seem to really matter if there’s any delay in the screaming session. So he delays it. He catches the edge of Paul’s hoodie, drags him backwards, and pulls him into a kiss.

Paul doesn’t resist. Except that he makes noises that sound like muffled rants, Paul tugs back at Art’s shirt and pretty much welcomes the kiss. He mumbled angrily when Art tried to pull away, so Art stays and lets the kiss run a little longer. Eventually, Paul breaks it with a deep frown and a little shove on Art's chest. He licks his lips a little, thinking. “I’m not sure if I wanna keep slapping you or get you undressed.”

Art shrugs. “We can work it into one and you can spank me.”

“We—what? What? _What?_ No! Stop freaking me out!”

Paul shudders and Art giggles. He doesn't understand what's so freaky about that idea, but there it goes. Paul still scowls but he squirms uncomfortably now, and Art already feels like he's winning a little. He smiles and turns to fasten all the available latches, as slowly as he can. He can feel his nerves returning to him. “Um,” he starts, a little jittery, “how did you know I’m here?”

“Sandy told me.”

“When did you talk to Sandy?”

“Yesterday.”

“You went to Sandy’s home?”

“I didn’t. I called him.”

“Okay, how did you know his phone number?”

“Jules got me it from your apartment.”

“Why did Jules break into my apartment and give it to you?”

“Your Mom told him to.” Art turns around. Paul raises his eyebrow. “Are you done questioning me? Because it seems like you're the one who has more to share to the group.” Art puts his head down sadly, like a kid got caught sneaking candies. Paul sighs, closing his eyes. It doesn't matter how upsetting Art's actions are, when he looks like that—like a sort of nervous hamster who just ate its own child—Paul couldn't keep his rage. That look makes him feel guilty about speaking _just_ a little loudly. He shakes his head and beckons to Art. “Come here, baby.”

Art perks up. “Is that a thing now?”

Paul laughs. “Anything to get you home. Now, do as I say and come here.” With a large grin, Art takes Paul’s hand and follows him with skipping steps. (Paul tells him to stop skipping because he might fall). He releases Art’s hand when they arrive at the side of the bed, then pets the mattress and speaks softly. “Lie down, relax, let’s talk.”

Art does so and watches quietly as Paul drags a chair closer to the bed. He sits down and stares at Art intently. Art opens his mouth but Paul shakes his head to shut him up. For a little while, they just stay like that until Art begins to fidget uncomfortably. Paul smiles and scoffs a little. He reaches out one hand to hold Art’s, and the other he uses to stroke him on the forehead, calming him, and then, very, very gently, he asks, “You told your mother?” Art nods, and is stopped again before he can speak. “You’re sorry. I know. It’s okay.”

Art squirms a little. “Did she call you?”

“No, your father did. He punched me on the face. That was a fun time.” Art tries to raise, but Paul pushes him back, gently pressing a palm against Art's chest. “No, no. It’s fine. Honestly, I think that was quite deserving. And don't worry, your mother's talked him down, and she made sure that we're gonna be fine, as far as your father thing goes. But I think you should tell me what the fuck you’re doing here.” Paul lifts an eyebrow. “You’re running away from me?” Art nods. “And Penny? And you’re upset because of Carrie?” He nods again. Paul frowns. “Okay. I get all that. But why did you tell me you’re going to Europe?”

Art shrugs. “I was just… You know.” He clears his throat, looking down, feeling embarrassed. “You remember last year? Last year, you said we should go to Europe together, but we never did. I know that things transpired after that, and it's largely my fault because I was the one who avoided you, but... I don't know. I thought after we picked up where we left of, we could...” Paul narrows his eyes, smiling a little. Art sighs. “Okay, I’m an idiot.”

Paul laughs. “No, you’re being a baby. That’s why you’re lying on the bed, and I’m getting you a warm milk.”

“Oh, so can I call you Daddy?”

“HOLY FUCK, NO.”

Art giggles. He brings their interlaced hands and kisses Paul on the knuckles. “Okay, tell me everything. How did this all happen? When? What did my Dad say to you?” He pauses. Then, he tugs on Paul’s hand. “Can you join me in bed?”

Paul grins and stands from his seat. “Sure, but I haven’t slept since Saturday, so I might actually fall asleep if my head finds pillow.”

“Oh.” Art scoots over. Paul slips inside the blanket and settles, making low rumbling noise when he lies down. From the way he exhales, Art realises that he’s actually very tired. He probably is. Is he fresh-off a drive from New York? Probably. And it's the morning, so he must've started the journey in an early hour. Art snuggles close. “Okay, why don’t you sleep a little? I’ll wake you up at lunch.”

Paul nods a little, his eyes are fluttering. “That sounds good. What do we have for lunch?”

“We can go out. Quincy Market has this candy store that I like…”

Paul scoffs. “God, you are a baby.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

So Paul uses the last of his conscience to tell Art about what happened on Saturday morning over eclairs and coffee, then on Saturday evening with the flying fist and the hot chocolate, then Sunday noon with the screaming on the bleachers and the hotdogs, and finally the whole restless Sunday evening and excuses he made for Carrie that brought him to a very early Monday morning wake-up and a 3 and a half hours drive to the hotel where Art is staying.

He falls asleep when the sun is high and the light streams through the top of the windows. Art closes his eyes and breathes him in deeply, scared of losing the moment. He curls his fingers into a fist and notices that his trembling doesn’t persist.

Paul’s hand is wrapping his.

***

Slightly past noon, Art opens the door to let the room service in. They wheel in a cart filled with lidded trays and plates, and while Art’s whispered to get them to be as quiet as possible, Paul still stirs at the sound of the mildest commotion. Art quickly gets the room service out with a handful of tips, then locks the door. “Hey,” he calls. Paul rubs his eyes and stretches sleepily. “I thought you’d be hungry when you wake up, so I got food. We can go out later. In the evening. Or afternoon. Or tomorrow.”

Paul huffs a little. “Are you just going to list all time reference there is?”

“Overmorrow. The fortnight. 2 PM.”

“Shut up or I’ll start dating Lorne.”

Art grins. “It makes you nauseous just saying that, doesn’t it?”

Paul winces. “Yeah, that hurts me. Anyway, I’m up. What are we having, and when can I see this legendary Sandy? You told Sandy, right?” Paul quickly prances towards Art and tilts his head for a kiss. Art thinks it’s a little funny that Paul has to tiptoe a little to kiss Art. He’s so small and tilting his head like that must be killing his neck. Maybe Art should bend down a little more. Or maybe… Paul laughs and slaps him gently. “Hey, butthead, are you going to kiss me or not?”

Art wraps his arms around Paul’s shoulders and chuckles before melting into the kiss. It’s really not like when he kissed Linda—it’s much warmer; or even Laurie—it’s much livelier; or Penny—it’s much more genuine; or really, anyone else he’s ever kissed. This is special. Paul is special. It’s like owning every drop of happiness ever dripped in the world, and it doesn’t stop when their lips part. It goes on. It goes on, and it lingers forever.

Forever. There it is again.

Paul sits down around the table, finally realising how big Artie’s suite is. He doesn't say much about it, but he makes an impressed whistle while Art drags the cart closer, slowly realising that he's acting like a butler, just as Paul said he wanted him to be if they're ever vacationing in a German castle. Paul opens the lid one by one and carefully takes the clam chowder for himself and pushes the sandwich towards Art. Art pours the tea for the two of them, pausing for a while to admire the scent and the movement of the steam in the air. He turns to Paul when he sits down. “I ordered skirt steak and a chocolate cake for you.”

Paul smiles. “I want you to eat your sandwich first.”

Art nods and plucks one sandwich. He wants to explain that he ordered grilled cheese because there’s no point buying hotel lobster roll, and _not_ because he's a 10-year-old, but he thinks obliging Paul comes first. It seems to be way too late when he realised that it's a pretty silly automated response.

Paul holds Art’s hand while they eat, quietly. Art doesn’t know how anyone can use both hands, but probably that’s just Paul; he wants to do everything, preferably all at once. Art looks down at their entangled hands, taking note cheerfully of how Paul’s ring is still on that finger.

“Do you remember,” Paul suddenly said, giving Art a start, “when you’re in that movie with Jack Nicholson?”

Art quickly nods. “Of course I do. Can you forget ever working with a Jack Nicholson?”

Paul clears his throat bashfully. “So, nothing with him?”

“What? No!”

Paul shrugs. “You literally got naked in front of him… and the camera. You’re practically a porn star. Oh my God, I’m dating a porn star. My teenage dream came true.”

Art laughs. “Okay, you’re being insane. And, while we’re talking about things that happened in front of the camera... that time when you wore that turkey suit, remember?”

“Oh, God. Can you forget ever wearing a fucking turkey suit?”

He giggles loudly. “No, and neither can I. I watched that and I thought, ‘huh, why did I fall in love with Paul Simon again? Oh yeah, it was because of those legs’.” Art buries his face in his arm, laughing throatily. Paul kicks him and screams, “YOUR POINT?!”

Art grins. “Okay. So, Lorne said he’s going to help you change…”

“Uh-huh. And he did. And he jerked me off in the dressing room, and we fucked, the whole nine.”

“Shut up.” Art shakes his head, pinching his nose. “Alright, alright, alright. Okay, you and Lorne is not a thing, is never a thing, will never be a thing. Okay, it's all out of my system. Now, Paul, I have to say this for my own peace of mind. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about telling my mother, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that my father knows, too. I’m sorry he sucker-punched you last Saturday, and I’m sorry for lying to you about coming here, and I’m sorry for sulking because we never made it to Europe. I’m sorry for being such a baby, and I’m sorry for being mad about you getting back together with Carrie.”

Paul puts down his spoon and leans his temple against his fist. He looks at Art thoughtfully, taking his time. Art speculates that he's probably thinking about the way to calm him down, because he's being frantic and jumpy again. But it doesn't seem like it. Paul is weighing options. “Artie,” he finally says, “Artie, do you want me to break up with Carrie?”

Art tenses up a little.

“I will do it for you.”

“You will?” he quickly snaps. Paul nods sternly. Art fiddles with the edge of his last sandwich, watching it crumbles between his fingers. Paul tugs on his chin and draws him into a gentle kiss. He doesn’t know whether it’s alright to hug Paul with his fingers smudged with butter and breadcrumbs, so he stays still. For the moment, he stays still and lets Paul shower his face with little kisses, all warmed-up from the soup and the tea. It's nice. It feels tender and beautiful; just the little moment the two of them managed to steal together. If they run away further, can they really get away with the theft? Can they hide forever?

Forever. _Forever, forever, forever._ Paul and Art— _forever._

Art cups Paul’s jaw and stops him. “You will, but you will hate me for it, won’t you?”

Paul shrugs. “Not hate, but I will hold it against you for the rest of your life.”

Art smirks. “That doesn’t sound ideal, does it?”

He closes his eyes and leans his forehead on Paul’s shoulder. He thinks about Laurie, a little. He thinks about how he decided to leave Paul for Laurie. It was the right thing to do. This is exactly what he didn’t want to happen—he didn’t want to make Paul feel the way he’s feeling right now. But being apart from Paul wasn’t right either. It hurts all the same, for both of them. So, what's right? Nothing's right. The whole world is wrong.

Art squeezes Paul’s hands and tilts his head to catch Paul’s lips. He shakes his head. “It’s okay if you want to be with Carrie,” he mumbled. “I just want you to love me. Without resentment. I don't need to have you, that's fine." Art stops when he noticed his voice begins to sound whiney. He grins. "And that’s quite a threat you pull on me. I don’t appreciate that.”

“But it works.”

“Yes, it works, and I hate you.”

Paul chuckles lowly. “I’m sorry,” he said, then he moves in to kiss Art again. “I’m sorry. I want to do this a little quicker. I’m a little panicked myself. I don’t know how to work this out.” He sighs and squeezes Art’s shoulder. “Listen, I know this is an insane situation. But I don’t wanna lose you, Artie. If there’s a way around it, I would take it.”

Art smirks. “We can run away together,” he suggests. “Drive all the way to Mexico, start over. I can still teach math, you can… sing and harvest weeds.”

Paul laughs and shakes his head. “That’s nice. That’s a nice thought. Can your hair survive the heat? Won’t it catch fire? Oh God, that would be _so_ funny. You, running around, screaming, with your head on fire. Okay, let's go to Mexico. Let's go now.”

“I don’t know what’s with you and my hair.” Art sighs loudly and retreats, leaning back to the chair. “So, we just suck it up? As usual?”

Paul shrugs again. “We don’t have to suck it up _now._ We can stay in here for a while. We can have picnic in the park, walk around the harbour, scare pigeons…” He smiles and brushes Art’s hair affectionately. “It can be our little vacation. Or if it really has to be Europe, we can fly to Europe right now.”

Art tilts his head and his lips turn up a little. “Is that what we do? We snoop around like teenage kids trying to break curfew?”

Paul’s face falls and he nods a little. “I know. I know, it’s not ideal. I’m sorry…”

“No.” Art shakes his head. “That’s all you can do. That’s all _we_ can do. That’s fine. I can’t do anything more for you, either. It’s not your fault that it’s not fair.”

“Artie, don’t say it’s fine if it’s not.”

“It’s _not_ fine. But…” Art pulls his hands away, noticing them tremble gently. He hides it from Paul. “But that’s just the way the world is.”

Paul draws a heavy breath. He places his hand on Art’s lap. “I guess this is the only way to love each other, huh?”

Art looks up. “As long as there’s a way.”

And he smiles, so brightly that it seems like the whole summer is contained in their room. Art twines his long fingers with Paul’s and he leans forward. Paul looks down, and he, too, smiles. Very happy, very moved. “You’re wearing the ring,” he murmurs softly. He runs his thumb over the little golden band and takes Art’s hand to kiss it. Paul brings it to his cheek, closing his eyes in gentle ecstasy. “I love you so much.”

Art rests his head in Paul’s embrace and they stay that way for a long time. Paul makes a little giggling noise behind his shoulder, and he can feel that calloused finger running across the ring over and over again, proud and joyful. He’d tilt his head from time to time to plant a little kiss on the back of Art’s neck, under his ear, by his jaw. Art simply closes his eyes and lets everything wash over him.

Art smiles to himself. It’s a peaceful life. He doesn’t live it alone.


	13. Why We're Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul & Art returning to New York.

“You can tell the state of their relationship from the way Paul treats a broccoli.”

This is Lorne talking to Eddie. The unlikely combo somehow found each other on the street, and Lorne the Brain decided that it’s a good idea to abuse Paul’s apartment. They haven’t seen the owner in days, and Lorne said that it’s not healthy for a house to not be inhabited for far too long. “My mother said that’s what invites ghosts,” he said. Eddie, of course, out of sanity, believed him not. But Lorne said he’s going to buy pizza and give him beers, so Eddie said yes.

“Because if he stabs the broccoli and frowns,” he continues, “it means they’re fighting. _But_ if he pokes it and smiles, it means they just did all those lovey-dovey things they do.”

Eddie nods slowly, munching on the free pizza. “What sort of lovey-dovey things do they do?”

Lorne shrugs. “I don’t know, but don’t you think they feed each other grapes and sing each other to sleep every night?”

“No.”

He nods rapidly. “Sure, sure. Anyway, back to the broccoli thing. _If_ his fork stops before forking the broccoli, it means they just did something nasty. Now, how do I know all these? It goes back to winter 1976…”

Eddie is regretting it. He’s regretting his whole decision to come over just for the sake of free pizza and beers. Lorne is weird. Funny, but weird. No wonder Paul likes him. Eddie tries to interfere Lorne’s story with, “You know, he’s going to return _with_ Garfunkel. Why not just _ask_ them how things went instead of orchestrating ridiculous plot involving a feast completely consisting of broccoli dishes?”

“Amateur!” Lorne spat. He swings his legs to prop on the armrest. “They’re not going to tell! That’s why we have to pick up the clues! I have engineered this perfect method. Just trust me. Over the years, I have stealthily formed impression in Paul's mind that Art looks like a broccoli, and now it's time to reap what I sow..."

Eddie shakes his head to tune him out, but fails. He should’ve listened to Paul when he warned Eddie about Lorne. ‘Don’t hang out with Lorne, he’s insane and he _will_ drive you insane’. It’s all true. Eddie is losing his mind. He leans back and wipes his hand off pizza sauce, praying to every God there is for Paul’s imminent return.

That’s when the lock turns and a surprised voice snarls from the doorway. “Hey, what the fuck is going on here?”

***

Paul drops a big laundry bag by the door, sweeps a look across his apartment. He laughs in surprise. “What the fuck? Are you using my apartment while I’m not home? What are you two doing?”

Eddie stands up. He quickly runs to Paul and gives him a big hug with relieved whimper. Paul giggles in confusion, patting Eddie’s back hesitantly. “Good to see you, too, freeloader. Lorne, what have you done to my brother?”

“Nothing! I gave him beer and pizza, that’s all. Hey, you’re here! Where’s Garfunkel? Did you work it out?”

Art’s head pokes from the door. “Is that Lorne?” He turns his head around, finding Lorne and waves. “Hi Lorne. What are you doing with Eddie? Paul’s not enough, you’re trying to kiss his brother, too?”

“Whoa, what? Lorne, _you kissed Paul?_ ”

“WHOA! HEY! OPEN DOOR! Artie, get in and close the door behind your butt. Jeez, you people.” Paul pushes through the crowd, prancing to throw his laundry bag to the laundry room. Art softly shuts the door, hugs Eddie cursorily and quickly follows Paul, who grins and takes his embrace gladly. “What? You still wanna be clingy?” Art leans down and kisses him on the cheek. Paul giggles. “That’s a yes.”

“That’s a big fucking yes,” he agrees, nodding slowly, drawing Paul closer for another kiss.

“Aw, look at my Mommy and Daddy making up. It’s like you two just got back from honeymoon.”

Paul shoves Art quickly and grunts. “No. No one calls me Daddy. NO ONE CALLS ME DADDY EXCEPT HARPER! YOU’RE RUINING MY LIFE—ALL OF YOU! Except you, Eddie. You can get more beers.”

Art frowns. “Hey, who says I’m the Mommy?”

“Do you still wanna be my baby?”

Art sighs and nods despondently. “I still wanna be your baby. Alright, you’re the Daddy.”

“I SAID NO! Alright, this is driving me insane. Uh, good to see you Eddie. Get out of my house, Lorne— _forever._ Artie, why don’t you sit down and we’ll leave in fifteen minutes? Where do you wanna go? How about that Spanish restaurant that you like? Or the French? Italian? Chinese? Indian? Pick one before I start to sound like geography class.”

“French.” Art waves while Paul retreats from the madness. He’s never really sure what Paul does in the bedroom when he’s trying to get away from the living room crowd, but he thinks it’s polite not to disturb him. So Art drops himself on the couch, sighing softly and smiling faintly.

Lorne grins from ear to ear staring at him. “So, a pretty good honeymoon, huh? You two worked it out?” Art shrugs casually, and Lorne waves at Eddie, jumping on his seat. “Look at that! Look at that! We don’t even need to use broccoli, and we found out what happened anyway! I _told_ you we should just ask.”

Eddie slumps forlornly, trying to disappear.

Art grins sympathetically at him, but simply shakes his head. “Anyway, Lorne?” Lorne perks up at the sound of his name. “My friend Sandy said I should thank you. He said, you’re introducing me to Penny to keep me in the loop with Paul. Because she’s Carrie’s best friend, so I ought to hang out with them, in spite of the state of my affair with Paul?” Lorne lifts his eyebrows, his hands clasped together. Art puffs a little laughter and nods gently. “Yeah, I didn’t notice that. I, uh… Thank you. For that.”

Lorne smiles. He reaches out to give Art’s knee a little squeeze. “Anytime.” Art pats his hand a few times. “So, who’s this Sandy? He sounds like a stand-up guy. When can I meet him? Would he be interested in forming Simon & Garfunkel Protection Squad with Eddie and I?”

“Yeah, you might have to stop trying to ensnare my brother in your lunacy.” Eddie approaches when Paul finally returns to the living room with a fresh T-shirt, and he brings beers for everyone. Paul sits next to Art, and Eddie finds a place as far away from Lorne as possible.

“So,” he says, distributing the bottle opener, “what happened in Boston?”

***

What happened in Boston was largely nothing. They spent the whole week just skittering around aimlessly, like they did when they were younger and had all the time in the world to goof around and enough money to fund it.

Sandy’s wife called them that afternoon, inviting them to dinner at their home. They graciously accepted the invitation, and killed time from lunch to evening shopping for clothes because Paul didn’t bring a single piece of thread with him. “ _Who_ travelled only with guitar?” Art screeched upon knowing. But that was the same old Paul that he knew: guitar first, basic needs later. Paul spent a _lot_ of times nit-picking every single item in the store—Art had forgotten this about Paul and shopping. When the afternoon wound down, all Art wanted was to sit down with a pretzel and a lemonade.

Paul dressed up sharply to Sandy’s dinner, bringing a bouquet of white hydrangeas and powder pink roses for Sue, and a box of pastel-coloured macarons they picked up after shopping. Sue was very delighted to receive the colour-coordinated gifts, and Art took note on the little trick to better impress ladies.

Sandy hugged Art and shook Paul’s hand warmly at the reception. They dined lightly over boiled potatoes and roasted chicken, and wine was always a-plenty. Sandy asked for permission to share their story with Sue, and she received the news with a kind smile. “Then, we are in the presence of true love,” she said.

Paul raised his glass. “And so are we.”

They went to the candy store that Art had wanted to go the next day. He splurged on saltwater taffies, sacks of all variations of Jelly Belly he could find, boxes of Belgian chocolates, toffees and caramels, nougats and fudge and everything that would bring cavities. They had lunch with everything lobster, sampled as many ice creams flavours as allowed, then walked out to enjoy coffee and pastry in fresh air. They returned in the evening and recreated the night of their first time with the tub and the tea.

Then it was Wednesday when Paul called for a breakfast in bed with hash brown waffles and eggs, sausage links and grilled tomatoes, strawberries and juices. It was the day that they spent with simply fucking until they got hungry, ordered more food and ate them without bothering with clothes, and did it on repeat until early evening. They walked along the Boston Harbour until they nearly fell asleep on the bench and dawn picked them up.

On Thursday, they rented bicycles and cycled around the park in front of their hotel—as Paul promised, he scared a few pigeons. Paul brought his guitar with him, so they looked for a shaded place and sang together there. Then they skittered around hotel’s lobby, trying their funny cocktails and performing on stage to kill time, then got showered with more drinks, courtesy of everyone they encountered.

Art showed Paul the second-hand bookstore that he liked, and the nest of books he’d made during his stay. Art bought stacks of books and piled it in Paul’s car, now that they’re returning together. They went back to the hotel and Art read and Paul wrote. And they ate the secret stash of sweets and sang. Just like the old times.

They were having a brunch by the side of the pool when both of them looked into the water and just knew that it’s time to go home. So they stuffed their dirty laundry into the laundry bag, wrapped up the rest of their sweets, packed the guitar and went to Sandy’s to bid their farewell. When Paul tugged on Art’s shirt, he let Sandy off his embrace reluctantly. Sandy smiled and patted his cheek and nodded in a way that delivered more words than speech could. Art kissed his cheeks sadly, knowing that letting go of him would mean having to face New York and everything he ran away from, and finally walked on.

***

That was what happened in Boston, and it was all condensed into a “you’re right, we were on a honeymoon”. Lorne and Eddie simply have to accept that explanation, but no one feels at ease at how peaceful the two of them look, sitting quietly on that couch. Somehow, they know—even Eddie, who’s new to this—that this would be the new entrance to their separation, and they’re simply savouring the very last moments they’re together.

Paul and Art leave for dinner. Lorne says goodbye to Eddie, and Eddie goes home by himself. The night rolls away and, as promised, Art stays over at Paul’s apartment. And again, on Sunday. And again, on Monday. And on Tuesday morning, he wakes up, leaves everything behind, and walks across the park to return to his own apartment.

Carrie returns that afternoon, and she’s elated to find herself showered with leftover Jelly Belly. After a couple of weeks, she nagged Penny into calling Art, and that’s how it begins. Art opens his door for Penny, and they work it out slowly—a lot of walking, a lot of dinners, a lot of talking, a lot of all-nighters that spans over the course of months. Paul listens to Carrie’s updates on biweekly basis, and it puts a smile on his face knowing that this doesn’t sound like something that would hurt Art. It’s not love. Not yet. It’s a thoughtful friendship, and they’re having fun. Just fun.

So Paul carries on with Carrie. They hold hands and laugh and dance, resuming and renewing their experience in falling in love—this time, without fear. Carrie’s there to support Paul when he feels lost. Paul’s there to hold Carrie when she’s spiralling out of control. It begins to make sense.

Art is fading away.

Probably.


	14. Epilogue: Why We Can't Be Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art is gone, Paul is here.

Paul sits by the bathroom door, listening to the singing Carrie and smiling to himself. Carrie doesn’t sing in front of people. Not anymore, at least. She doesn’t wanna be her mother’s child, or her father’s child, or anyone else but Carrie. Paul likes that about her. He can’t mistake her with anyone else. When he likes her, he just likes her; there’s no shadow of other people in her.

He closes his eyes and hums softly along with her. She has a deep voice, Carrie. Smooth, silky, decadent; like melted chocolate. This would be perfect for a jazz number. He wonders if he can talk her into singing something he writes, but he knows she’s going to pour salt over his head, and the image makes him laugh. And, no, he’s not turning Carrie into yet another instrument.

Paul stands up and walk up to one of his phones. He waits for a while until Carrie picks up the one in the bathroom with a sing-songy “helloo”. Paul clears his throat, “Hey, so I’m from the room next door and I overheard your caterwauling…”

“Caterwauling, huh? How dare you.”

Paul chuckles. “So, I was wondering if I can join the festivity in closer proximity.”

Carrie’s low laughter rings from the receiver. “Get in here, Simon.”

Paul puts the phone back and skips forward merrily. He cracks open the door and blinks away the steam from the hot water. Carrie’s floating under thick layers of bubbles and waves her hand. “Unlocked door is a security hazard. What if a pervert breaks into our apartment and gets a gander at you floating in the tub like that? We'll find ourselves in a seriously compromising situation there,” Paul says.

“Yeah? What if I fall and knock my head on the side of the tub? You can’t bust that door open, that’s solid.” Carrie splashes him with water. Paul grins and takes off his shirt. Carrie never protests about him throwing his dirty laundry everywhere, mostly because she does it too. He leans over and kisses Carrie’s shoulder. She smells like artificial roses.

Carrie holds his hand while he steps into the tub. “Hey, will you wash my hair? I love your head massage. I don't even know where and how you learned it, but it's _great_.”

Paul laughs nervously. “A lot of practice, Princess. Alright, come here.”

Carrie groans and takes off her hair clip, placing it on the side of the tub. “Ugh, don’t call me that. The hair’s ridiculous! It’s like they put cinnamon rolls on my head.”

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about, you make a cute cinnamon roll.” Paul untangles her hair and runs his fingers through it. It’s different. It’s thick, smooth, glowing… and brunette. Carrie has such a beautiful hair.

“So, I just had a postcard from Penny…”

Paul lifts his eyebrows. “Oh, is this one of Carrie’s people’s relationships updates?”

“Uh-uh. I work exclusively for Penny and Art. I call it ‘Penny for Your Thought’. Inspired, huh?” Paul laughs. Carrie reaches out to take the said postcard and reads it out loud. “‘ _Hello from Italy! I know I should’ve anticipated this, but vacation with Art involves way more walking than I expected. I’m gonna need you to fit me in for wooden legs after I got back. Love for Paul. Penny._ ’ So, where are we getting these wooden legs?”

“Hmm, I don’t know, but we can always go to Honduras and find Miss Marshall the finest mahogany in all the lands.”

Carrie laughs. She returns the postcard to the driest place she could find, exhaling slowly. She looks behind her shoulder, gazing at Paul with slightly worried eyes. “Are you two still in bad terms?”

“Oh, that’s the official title for it, sure.” Paul sighs as softly as he can. He whiffs on Carrie’s hair before he drizzles it with water. The colour deepens when it’s wet. Paul likes the glossy brown. It looks like the hot chocolate from Mrs. Garfunkel. “But we’re still friends.”

Worst things always happen in June. This year’s June, it was hearing that Artie went to Europe after all, for a summer holiday or whatever, _with Penny_. What’s he gonna do? Paul thought they’d have fun, riding motorbike through little French villages and try funny food in the marketplace. Paul wanna try feeding Art pastries while he drives; how dangerous will it be, really? And, really, if they die, they die. Well, he can do it with Penny too, surely. Maybe it’ll be more fun with Penny, who knows?

It stings, though. It’s something they’d been wanting to do together, and now he’s leaving with someone else, snatching a dream they made for two and gave it to the first person knocking on his door.

Paul had told the whole world that he would _never_ sing the songs he made for the two of them ever again, and for the moment it sounded true. Because he’d never have Artie with him ever again; how could he sing them without him? Paul sighs, and smiles very faintly. No, he didn't really mean it. And, no, he’s not really angry. He just wants to be angry because he loves Art. This European summer thing seems like a good reason to be angry, so he took it.

After the water's cooled down and the tub is drained, Paul and Carrie carefully step onto the mat and dry their feet. Paul kisses her on the cheek before he left her to a hairdryer, and she blows him a kiss with a flirty wink. He laughs at that and shakes his head as he makes his way out of the bathroom. He only needs towel to dry his hair, so he does it while walking around and flipping through random magazines he finds as he moves along. Paul likes to wander around when he’s doing idle things.

The phone in the kitchen rings and Paul pauses in his track before he takes it. It’s been a year since that call, and Paul still fears the kitchen phone. He exhales slowly and reaches out, then clears his throat before saying, “Paul Simon.”

It's one of those big phone calls with a lot of name throwing and introductions. Paul frowns and says a lot of 'uh-huh'. Sure, he’s heard of Delsener. Sure, he knows what’s going on with the park. Names of people, TV channel, funding and profits and other things. Paul leans on the wall and listens to the propositions on the phone. He's starting to feel cold, but he can't leave the kitchen now. “And the bottom line is,” they said from the other end of the line, “would you be interested in doing the performance?”

Paul almost said ‘sure’. He always says ‘sure’ to every offer, that’s how he works: he takes the chance, and comes up with plan to do it later. So far, it’s been a good enough survival method. But this time, he stops. His word, stopped by his brain, comes out as an inexplicable mumble. He can hear an “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that” on the phone.

Paul looks down to his hand. Carrie never asked, and it's probably nothing at this point. But he looks at that silver ring on his finger and thinks of that night in last year's early June, the ice pack and the mother, and the words she said before she left in the night. He wants that. He wants to be there for celebration of a union. Nothing else will be good enough.

Paul lets out a long exhale.

He nods at the invisible man on the phone. “I’ll do it,” he says.

The invisible man cries out excitedly.

“But only if you get Artie, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, every single part of this series had surpassed 100 hits! Yay, thank you! <3


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